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.

15. The Road to Lesalia, Part I

Chapter 12: The Road to Lesalia, Part 1

Yet another truism of Ivalice was that, when pushed too far, the Ivalician people take action...and that such action was rarely peaceful. After more than half a century of calamitous warfare, political upheaval, and repeated bouts of flooding, drought, plague, and economic ruin, the myriad peoples of the seven provinces were long on anger and short on patience.

And, as often happened during those long years of fear, when the shadows of war and starvation loomed ever higher and darker, fear had a tendency to turn into anger. And, often sooner rather than later, anger gave way towards violence.

And so it was that, after a month and a half of strange occurrences centered around the deserted Lionel Castle, still largely attributed to the restless dead, the people who lived in the ancient fortress's ominous shadow had finally had enough.

It was not just the strange noises of labor wafting out of the empty castle by day, nor the wailing of a babe in arms by night, but the past week had seen a number of disappearances, even though citizens of all descriptions yet gave the castle a wide berth. At first, it was only the odd street urchin who, beforehand, had been either panhandling on this street corner or trying to slip into that shop to pilfer whatever food or coin they might find. The disappearance of one or two disreputable waifs was met with the occasional words of sympathy towards the misfortunate of the world from some, and a considerable amount of relief from most, but very little action on the part of either group. When one or two disappearances became one and then two dozen, however, the people became furtive. Then, when a former teacher, who'd taught at a school which had been lost to Ivalice's former poverty, also disappeared, hands began to wring and brows to stream.

Another week passed and, after still others went missing, the call to arms was sounded.

Nearly a hundred townsfolk had rallied, armed with whatever weapons they could scrape together. Though all were nervous, and all too aware that only a bare portion of their meager arsenal had been blessed with the ability to damage foes from beyond the grave, all remained resolute in their determination to cleanse Lionel Castle of the foul undead which lurked within.

And, afterward, they would burn the castle to the ground and be rid of its ignominious legacy once and for all.

After some heated debate, the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker were selected to act as scouts for the assault. Since these specters seemed active by day, an abnormality about which all remained curious, the trio would approach the castle in the early morning, assess the numbers and strength of the undead within, and report back so that their fellows could plan their attack accordingly. As the trio approached the castle, they saw still more signs that something/ dwelt within, for the once overgrown garden had been at least partially tamed, looking only half as weed ridden as before. What's more, the cobblestone paths, which had been nearly lost beneath a carpet of autumn leaves, had been swept clean. Moving closer, they saw that, as reported by those who'd ventured this close in the past, the windows were inexplicably clean and that the visible areas of the interior had been dusted as well. But, when they finally discerned sounds of activity coming from the kitchen and dining room, and found windows they could peer through, they saw neither ghosts nor zombies.

The castle was, indeed, inhabited, but the new tenants looked every bit as alive as the trio of onlookers.

All about the kitchen, a group of over a dozen children, their ages ranging from five summers to twelve, were bustling about, preparing what looked like a small feast. The smell of savory lamb, quiche, venison, a plethora of roasted vegetables, and basketfuls of freshly baked bread reached the nostrils of the strange kitchen staff's small audience. A girl with golden hair and sky blue eyes, who looked barely ten summers, was directing the bustle, seeming to punctuate each command by pulling out a small roll from a satchel at her waist and tearing into the treat with enough gusto to have all onlookers, children and otherwise, cringing. Perplexed, the trio moved to the next window. As they peered into the dining room, they saw another group of children, some arranging plates and silverware while others were weaving ribbons about the room's columns and threading strands of flowers across the otherwise cold, bare stone. Overseeing the dining room was a russet haired boy with eyes of a distinct shade of green. He looked just on the threshold of adolescence and, despite shepherding his unlikely staff like a head waiter's best apprentice, he paused in his work from time to time to cast an appreciative eye towards the girls under his supervision. Bewildered, the three men ducked out of sight and hurriedly conferred.

"I recognize some of those children," the candlestick maker whispered, honestly uncertain why he still feared detection or what such would entail. "At least two of them were panhandling outside my shop last month, and another broke in to try and steal the day's takings. I ran them off, and hadn't seen them since. But, why are they here?"

As it turned out, that was not the only mystery. The candlestick maker clearly remembered the waifs who'd troubled him being filthy and malnourished. But, all now looked freshly bathed and had apparently discovered the means to feed and clothe themselves. In fact, as the trio furtively rose and continued to watch, the blonde girl supervising the kitchen discreetly loosened the ties of her corset, as though this particular waif found her new clothes a trifle snug. Though, since all three men were quite certain that petty thefts in the city had declined sharply of late, they were at a loss as to just how this turn in fortunes had come about. And, when the baker spoke up, their confusion only deepened.

"I recognize some of those children too," he said. "They came into my store two days ago, looking to buy flour, fondant, and sugar. And, they paid for it all. Didn't short me one gil."

"Same here," the butcher added. "They bought that very rack of lamb from me the other day. I could've sworn the children were some of the waifs who'd been harassing my customers for gil, so I had no idea where the money came from. But, business had been slow since before the war started, so I was in no position to turn away visitors with coin."

The three men spent some time debating what to do next. Though it now seemed doubtful that the castle was haunted by the undead, they still had far more questions than answers. How had these children come to be here, and why? From whence came the money with which they'd purchased food and clothing when, not long ago, they'd begged for or stolen both? For whom was this meal being prepared? And, for that matter, how could they convey such a bizarre, and incomplete, account to their fellows without looking the part of cowards concocting any story they could to avoid being held to account for failing their duty to their families and neighbors?

Their discussion was forgotten when the sound of grass crunching underfoot reached their ears and, as they peered in the direction of the sound, they spied the blonde girl who'd been overseeing the kitchen. She looked to be inspecting a number of flowers blooming on the vines climbing the castle walls, no doubt looking to supplement the decorations inside. As before, she meditatively stuffed rolls into her mouth as she worked, studying the blossoms and gently pulling free those which met her approval.

Now that the three men could see her more clearly, it was all the more obvious that she was no specter, but a living and breathing child. Yet, that she was freshly bathed and dressed, however humble her garb, still left them confounded. They recalled a nigh-starved waif, who'd looked very much like this child, clad in rags and pilfering scraps but weeks before. And, as if seeking to add to their confusion, the girl bent backward to examine a group of florets on a vine higher up, pulling her outfit tight against what looked to be the beginnings of a potbelly.

After a moment spent exchanging questioning glances with his fellows, the candlestick maker elected to try the direct approach. Concealing his weapon in a patch of tall grass, just in case this confusing scene was not as benign as it looked, he approached the girl.

"Excuse me?" he asked, deliberately keeping his tone soft and non-threatening.

The girl, startled, whirled in his direction but seemed to calm when he held up both hands and put on what he hoped was a convincing smile.

"I'm sorry to have startled you," he said, somewhat surprised when he realized he meant it, "but I could not help but notice the bustle in there. What is happening?"

The girl seemed to mull over his words for a moment, as if uncertain how to answer, but she suddenly seemed to brighten.

"I guess you're not early guests, then?" she asked, her voice cheery even when the candlestick maker's expression likely betrayed his confusion. "Well, I could/ ask the master if he has room at the table."

"Room at the table?" the candlestick maker repeated, trying to keep his tone casual. "What is going on? And, what would we have been guests for?"

"Why, the wedding!" the girl replied, her excitement betraying her youth.

"Whose wedding, little one?"

After the girl had answered, and the three men decided to take what they knew back to their fellows, the assault on Lionel Castle was aborted. But, even after the bewildered townsfolk had laid aside their weapons and returned to their homes, a flurry of questions was bandied about the city, the province, and, later, beyond.

Who was Duke Drake Seymour? And, for that matter, who was his bride-to-be?

SSSSSS

"Duke Drake Seymour and Lady Agrias Oaks, on this day of great joy, the two of you have come together to forge a union born of mutual respect and love. Such is not a step taken lightly, but wisely, with foresight of the future, and, above all, with the firm belief that the bonds forged on this day will not be weathered by time nor shattered by unhappy chance, but will endure until death separates you," Father Jonathan Sanders, a priest from the Church of Glabados, intoned to the couple who stood before him in Lionel Castle's chapel.

Unlike the rest of the ruthlessly austere castle, the chapel had had some color afforded it by its two prior lords. Stained glass windows, thankfully depicting some of the less macabre scenes from the scriptures of Glabados, admitted light of many different hues, lending the bride a nigh-angelic image all her own. These were supplemented by a banner depicting a majestic eagle standing vigil over a nest of chicks, touted by Delita as a possible prototype for the 'Seymour' family crest. Conspicuously situated next to the banner of the eagle was that of the newly formed Order of the Chimera, which served as a thinly veiled reminder of just who had made Ramza and Agrias's pending marital bliss possible...

...and, that that same person could just as easily take it all away.

A deep red runner parted two rows of pews, sparsely filled but meticulously polished and gleaming in the rainbow of sunlight. Intricately wrought incense burners, containing a substance believed to enhance the ardor between newlyweds, flanked the doors and the altar, letting out heady fumes that had even the unattached amongst the audience pining for a glass of cold water.

Father Jonathan had been somewhat dubious about performing these rites and, truth be told, the feeling was mutual. But, though he likely had not looked favorably upon a couple whose child came before their nuptials, all knew he could not afford to turn down a personal request by King Delita to officiate the wedding between the new Duke of Lionel and his fiancée. With so much of the church's best and brightest dead, if not by Ramza's hand than by Vormav's, the church was in dire need of resources to replenish its ranks, and the bribe King Delita had offered to perform the marriage rites, and to keep silent about it afterwards, was too badly needed to refuse.

Still, despite how thoroughly leveraged the visiting priest was, those seated in the pews were hardly reassured. Granted, with High confessor Marcel dead and the Knights Templar all but annihilated, the church could do little against the small band. What's more, much to their amazement, Delita had proven as good as his word and, aside from the surviving Beoulves themselves, the pardons for all the one time fugitives had come through. And yet, despite this hopeful sign, the enmity the small group felt towards their vested visitor refused to be mollified.

Even if Marcel and his fellow conspirators had been only a few bad apples in an otherwise healthy barrelful, Ramza and his companions were not keen on finding out whether the church had more Father Simons than Confessor Zalmos. And, though at least a few of them still believed in what St. Ajora allegedly stood for - such as love and charity to ones fellow man, and that those who'd gone astray and done wrong must be shown forgiveness when they show contrition for their misdeeds - the church would not find even Ramza's freely given forgiveness until Ivalice's spiritual helm was in better hands.

Not that Ramza was thinking about his unlikely houseguest overmuch. After Agrias had swept into the room, Beowulf giving the bride away in her late father's stead, the groom's attention had been thoroughly fixed upon subduing his mutinous lower jaw.

Those gathered as witnesses had to admit, though, the catharsis of laughter had been sweet as they'd watched Ramza's jaw hang open until, reaching his side, Agrias had closed it for him.

"With that having been said," Father Jonathan went on, shaking all back to attention, "and with none amongst these witnesses having given good cause why you two should not marry, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?"

"We do," the couple in question answered as they stood before the altar, their voices echoing clearly in the emptiness of the chamber. The chapel was half full, at best, as many of the couple's other friends could not be there to attend the sudden nuptials. They had, however, sent them letters of well-wishes and were looking forward to meeting and congratulating them when they arrived at Lesalia. Normally, a noble's wedding was a grand event attended by hundreds. But, due to the need to maintain the secrecy of the Beoulve siblings' identities until they were properly introduced to the public as the Seymours by the new king, Ramza insisted that his and Agrias' wedding be kept a quiet and simple affair.

Even after seeing that the thirty or so orphans they'd allowed under their roof in exchange for help tending the castle would not betray them, the former Beoulve was nonplussed at the notion of his wedding being attended by so many strangers. Still, since he knew their reception would be a meager affair without them, he'd given the unlikely staff the choice of whether they wanted to attend. Nearly all elected to take their day's wages and, as was their custom, spend it on sweets, clothes, shoes, and toys, all of which had been the stuff of dreams during their harsh years in the defunct workhouses. Ramza hadn't argued the point, though he had been somewhat pleased when the first two young orphans they had taken in, Manon and Charlotte, had chosen not only to attend but to help with the ceremony.

In defiance of Ramza's fears about letting two strangers under the same roof as his soon-to-be wife, his child, and his pregnant sister, the two orphans had proven worth their weight in gil. Not only were they diligent in their duties and had managed to recruit other orphans who turned out to be trustworthy in tending the castle, but both were unshakably loyal to Alma. They'd listened to Reis' ongoing tutelage about what Alma must do to ensure the health of her baby and acted whenever Alma deviated from these instructions by so much as a hairsbreadth. They'd aided her in the kitchen, Charlotte's incessant peckishness notwithstanding, and had lent an ear and kind words whenever Alma was saddened by the prospect of her baby being raised by a man other than Izlude.

Not only that, but they'd also given Alma a picture of what motherhood would be like. Though the two children had survived the den of inequity that their former workhouse had become, it hadn't been easy for the pair to trust to their unlikely benefactors. Yet, Alma had shown them patience, understanding, and, ultimately, love. Sometimes it had been helping them through their lingering, but ever fewer, nightmares. Other times it had been keeping vigil by their sickbeds, such as when Rad's prediction about the aftereffects of Charlotte's ravenousness proved true. Once or twice, it had been admitting how scared she was of being a mother without the man she'd loved at her side and knowing the children cared enough to try and make her feel better, just as she did for them.

Both children had mentioned they believed Alma would be a good mother, and Ramza agreed.

Amongst Ramza's very, very long list of questionable ideas since that fateful day at Fort Zeakden, the decision to take in the orphans had likely been one of his best.

Ramza was jolted back to the present when the priest continued. "Since it is your intention to enter into marriage, join your right hands, and declare your consent to enter into this union before God and his Church."

The bride and groom obeyed. After taking Agrias' hands in his, Ramza took a deep breath and spoke the words he had rehearsed so many times in preparation for this very moment. He knew it would have been much easier to repeat the words of consent after the priest, as was the custom for most weddings. Some marrying couples were known to do so when their union was arranged by their respective families, and where bride and groom beheld little more than a stranger upon reaching the altar. Even those who'd married for love opted for being guided through the vows as often as not, for fear that the words would be lost to their anxiety or that the gravity of the moment would strangle their voices into little more than croaking. But, Ramza had felt that learning the words that would join him and Agrias forever, and letting his heart lend weight to those words, would make their wedding vows sound as heartfelt and sincere as his bride-to-be, and their child, deserved.

This didn't stop him, however, from breaking out in a sweat, nor did it still his quavering heart as he turned to face Agrias and found his throat going dry at the sight of her radiant eyes and rosy cheeks. Fortunately, though his bride was no less enthralled than he, she'd managed to keep her reserve.

"I, Drake Seymour, take you, Agrias Oaks, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

"And I, Agrias Oaks, take you, Drake Seymour, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

Father Jonathan could not help but be impressed with the coolness and ease with which the bride spoke her vows, even as her groom seemed to hover between ecstasy and panic. He gave them both a silent nod of approval, even as he smothered a chuckle at the groom's nerves, before continuing.

"You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in His goodness halve your sorrows and multiply your joys, as are His blessings to all happy and enduring pairs united in the bonds of wedlock. What God has joined, let no man tear asunder."

Ramza had to admit that, as he took in the sight of his newly wedded wife, he found himself wondering just how many men would be tempted to try. Probably more than a few, he'd imagine. After some debate, Agrias had consented to shed her armor in favor of a wedding gown. After Olan Durai had, at long last, sent word that the church had 'discovered' just how porous the evidence against Ramza's companions was, and expunged the mark of heresy against them, the Murry twins had lost no time dragging their captain into town to find a suitable gown. And, they'd chanced upon a shop which had an elegant white gown with, as the Murry twins had put it (in unison, no less) 'just the right mix of stylish and saucy'. Ramza still wasn't sure what that even meant, but he found himself getting flushed as he took in the triangular plunging neckline and the embroidered lace patterns that wound their way up and down the sleeves to where her shoulders were left exposed. Further down was a layered skirt which had bobbed and tilted as she made her way down the aisle, offering more than a hint of the shapely legs beneath. Her reddish-blond hair had been tied in a bun, secured by a hairpin adorned with a flower of deep purple, though she'd left two tendrils draped over either shoulder as was her custom.

Simply put, Agrias looked absolutely stunning, so much so that Manon forgot his assigned role as the ring bearer until Charlotte, who'd been the flower girl, gave him a not-so-gentle nudge that finally propelled him into action. Wearing an embarrassed smile that belied just how few years his once harsh life truly numbered, he charged forward, holding up the small satin pillow which, despite the mad sprint, had somehow retained the two gold and diamond rings meant for the bride and groom.

Ramza smiled and gave the blushing boy a nod of gratitude before taking one of the rings from the pillow. As soon as the young Beoulve had his bride's ring in hand, the priest raised his hand and said "May the Lord bless these rings which you give to each other as the sign of your love and fidelity."

As soon as he got Father Jonathan's signal to continue, Ramza took Agrias' left hand and reverently guided the ring onto and up her finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed. Wear it as a symbol of my abiding love for you."

"I accept and cherish this ring. I will wear it as a symbol of my devotion to you."

After the ring was placed on her finger, Agrias took the other ring from Manon's pillow and slipped it on her groom's finger as she repeated his words.

"With this ring, I thee wed. Wear it as a symbol of my abiding love for you."

"I accept and cherish this ring. I will wear it as a symbol of my devotion to you."

"Then, by the power vested in me by the Church of Glabados, I now pronounce you husband and wife," Father Jonathan intoned. "You may now kiss the bride."

Ramza obeyed as his shaking hands slowly lifted the veil from his lovely bride's face. Even though his wedding was nowhere near as extravagant as a noble's wedding was expected to be, he still considered himself the luckiest man on earth. Even though there had been no shortage of people who'd believed that the wrinkle of fate that had seen him born to the Beoulve line had supposedly dictated his entire life, just as surely as one born lowly supposedly stayed lowly until death, he nonetheless had the comfort of knowing that at least his wife was of his own choosing.

And, as his mind wandered to another whose life had been lived in defiance of fate's expectations, and despite his lingering reservations about his old friend, he found himself hoping that Delita and Ovelia had been as happy when they'd exchanged their vows.

Normally most bridegrooms would need to bend over to kiss their brides, but since Agrias was every bit as tall as he was, Ramza didn't have to move very far. Even so, the sheer bliss of what was happening left him so overwhelmed that that minute distance proved seemingly as vast as the Rhana Straight. Growing impatient, his bride decided to take matters into her own hands as she leaned forward and kissed him first, which prompted quite a bit of laughter from their friends sitting in the chapel pews, as well as their unlikely ring bearer and flower girl.

Normally, Alma would have joined in, for she knew better than most that her brother could be such a ninny at times, despite having led a rag-tag group of friends to victory against the Lucavi, as well as saving her life in the process. While Alma was truly happy for her brother and his new wife, for both of them were very dear to her, she also could not help feeling a tinge of envy creeping in on her joy as she recalled that soon, perhaps very soon, it would be her standing in front of the altar, but not alongside the man she truly wanted to marry. She knew that dwelling on such thoughts could only cause her further pain, especially when she had her baby to think of, but Alma couldn't help thinking what might have been if Izlude had lived. She liked to think he would've been thrilled to be a father, even if their child had been conceived out of wedlock, perhaps that he'd even have approved of her decision to take in Manon and Charlotte, as well as shared her faith that they'd only bring in former ward mates who could be trusted around little Rachel and their baby. Perhaps he might've gotten a good laugh out of how Alma had little success in curbing Charlotte's tendency to eat more than her long malnourished stomach could handle, or maybe he'd have set Manon straight regarding his wandering hands. Beyond that, however, she wondered if it would have been them exchanging vows as her brother and his bride had just done, perhaps with Meliadoul, who Alma had barely even met but knew to have been her would-be sister-in-law, acting as her Maid of Honor.

Had someone predicted she'd be pondering these questions regarding the man who'd dragged her from Orbonne, kicking and screaming, she might've considered the words to have been the product of some madness. But, looking back on her first encounter with the knight blade, what it led to, and what might have been, Alma realized that she wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world. She just wished it hadn't ended the way it did.

She tried to focus her thoughts elsewhere but quickly found that a wedding was hardly the place to try and put aside thoughts of one's lost love. Ramza, despite looking as flustered as a schoolboy who'd been noticed by the belle of the campus, could not hide the adoration he felt for Agrias and, though she was far more controlled than her giddy groom, it was obvious Agrias felt the same. Rad still kept up his rude games with Alicia and Lavian, fondling both in a manner which drew glares from anyone who happened to notice, but Alma suspected that there was a hidden meaning behind how his gaze lingered on Alicia just a bit longer than it did on Lavian. Even Manon and Charlotte, who Alma had immediately guessed meant a great deal to each other, were exchanging shy, furtive glances.

Sensing the stinging in her eyes, Alma wiped at them furiously and, for lack of anything else to focus on, considered the wording of her next inevitable lecture to Charlotte following the reception. Considering the wedding feast that their unlikely kitchen staff had managed to turn out, not to mention the three layered cake, if Charlotte didn't pop by the night's end, it wouldn't be for lack of trying on her part.

Reis, who had been sitting next to Alma, seemed to sense the Beoulve girl's train of thought. Even though she'd said nothing, the sadness and longing in her eyes was clear as day to the perceptive dragonkin. It was obvious that Alma was deep in the throes of regret, knowing that she would never get the chance to exchange vows with the man she truly loved. Seeing Agrias exchanging rings with Ramza, and knowing that Reis herself had just gotten married the week before to her long-time love, Beowulf, had surely stirred up a few ghosts. Knowing that Alma needed whatever comfort and encouragement she could get, especially since she carried her lost love's child, the dragonkin gently took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, as if telling her that everything was going to be all right and that her friends would always be there for her no matter what.

Knowing that Reis meant well, the Beoulve girl smiled and patted her hand as if to silently convey her gratitude for all Reis' support.

An unlikely catharsis came during the reception when, apparently having left his anxiety at the altar, an uncontrollably grinning Ramza began lavishing Agrias' neck with kisses. Despite realizing how childish of her it was - and how ironic, considering she and Izlude had done much the same during those halcyon days in Riovanes - Alma could not help the comically exaggerated expressions of disgust which crossed her features.

Her disgust became a bit more real, however, when Agrias gently pushed Ramza back and told him they ought to get used to the baby they had before they started making any more.

A bell-clear laugh told Alma that her discomfiture had been noticed by Reis, who was seated across the dining room table from the Beoulve girl. Rising from her seat, the dragonkin rounded the table to lay a hand, cold as dragon scales and yet as gentle as spring rain, upon Alma's shoulder.

"Agrias always did know how to get the last laugh," Reis opined, somewhat needlessly.

"I can see that," Alma replied, still trying to expunge the unbidden image of her brother 'making' her another niece or nephew. "I'll admit, I was stunned when I learned about Agrias. When I met her during the war, on the way to Orbonne, I suspected that Ramza was taken with her, but I never would've guessed they'd fall in love. Then again, I doubt she did either. Still, I am glad they found each other. And, I know they'll be a happy family. They're already such good parents to Rachel."

"Sounds like you've gotten in some practice yourself," Reis pointed out, gesturing towards Manon and Charlotte.

"'Practice' was a charitable way of putting it, in Alma's opinion. Though the two children had needed little time to win a place in her heart, the Beoulve girl was all too aware that she had just as much to learn about rearing Manon and Charlotte as she did with her own baby. Alma would never regret her decision to take in the two desperate waifs, for they'd helped her not only to gain a grasp of motherhood but also to appreciate it. Though the baby which Izlude should have raised alongside her would grow up calling a different man 'father', Manon and Charlotte crossing her doorstep had helped to center her. Yes, the father of her baby was gone, but the baby still needed her.

And, so did Manon and Charlotte.

Whether they stayed on at the castle or whether they eventually left to forge their own paths, they had been deeply scarred by the depravity that went on in their defunct workhouse and they needed to be healed. Not just of their cuts and bruises and malnourishment, all of which had already been tended to, but also shown that, for all its harshness, the world still had its bright spots, its motes of compassion and decency that shone brightly amidst the drab of apathy and the gloom of malice.

Ramza had believed that that world, for all its corruption, was worth fighting for. And, perhaps it fell to Alma to prove that that world was worth living in.

Of course, as she quickly discovered, that was vastly more complicated than it sounded.

Though Manon still had his better angels, he also had more than a few of Rad's bad habits prior to his arrival, and Rad had promptly begun making them worse. From time to time, she'd spy the boy ghosting his fingers against Alicia and Lavian's backsides. And, it didn't help matters that the Murry twins, who seemed to relish such rude games, encouraged him by allowing his wandering hands access to their hips and waists.

Alma had a supposition that Charlotte regarded Manon as more than just a fellow outcast, judging from the flash of displeasure that would cross her face when Manon was thus engrossed. And, realizing this, Alma found herself in conflict over whether it was her place or Charlotte's to let Manon know what harm he unwittingly caused.

And, Charlotte had other problems as well.

A recurring consequence of her long malnourishment was that she always seemed to be hungry and, now that she lived in a castle where there was food aplenty, all those enticements had little trouble working their magic on her. This point was driven home when Alma spied Charlotte cutting a slice of cake - her third, by Alma's count - and tearing into it as though days, rather than heartbeats, had passed since she'd last eaten.

And, before she'd even swallowed, Charlotte had cut free a slice of lamb nearly as big as her small fist and shoveled that in as well. Once she'd managed to get it all down, any and all onlookers surely being impressed (and slightly nauseated) that she hadn't choked, she snatched up a basket of bread, applied copious amounts of butter to each slice, and devoured each and all with a rapidity that had Alma shaking her head in equal parts disbelief and disgust.

Perhaps it was knowing how painful it was to go hungry, especially for a child, that had made Charlotte such an avid student in the kitchen, for she'd learned both to cook and to direct Lionel Castle's unlikely kitchen staff with remarkable ease. But, that didn't stop Alma's lips from twisting with displeasure as she recalled how, on top of all that Charlotte was presently shoveling down her mouth, an entire basket of rolls had 'disappeared' while the feast was being prepared. Suffice to say, the identity of the culprit was never in doubt.

"She'll make herself sick doing that...again," Alma opined, already bracing herself for another night spent at Charlotte's bedside.

"She might, but what to do about it?" Reis asked, seemingly no one in particular. "She might learn better on her own, or maybe you'll need to talk to her. These are questions that any parent has to ask themselves. Oh, there's never any shortage of people who want to give advice, but whose advice to listen to? And, what do you do if no one's suggestions please you? Well, that's a question only you can answer."

Just as Alma was reminded, pointedly, that the final responsibility belonged to her, and just how weighty it was, Reis calmed her with a maternal kiss to her brow.

"But, I have faith in you," the dragonkin affirmed. "I've seen how they look up to you, how they've come to respect and care for you, all in a matter of days. Even if you don't know what to do, talking to them might really be all you really need. Charlotte seems hurt by Manon's...attentions to other girls? Maybe you should encourage her to tell him, or tell him yourself? That's a decision only you can make, but I believe you'll make the right choice. As for Charlotte..."

Reis paused and pointed at the young girl who, though looking slightly green, appeared thoroughly determined to gnaw every last scrap of tender meat from the ravaged lamb chops which, by this point, had piled up on her plate under they were nearly level with her chin.

"Perhaps it'll have more of an impact if you tell her not to eat so much while she's trying to sleep all that off," Reis suggested. "Or, maybe that would be rubbing it in, and doing so the next morning would be better? Either way, you took in those children when no one else would give them a second glance. You gave them a roof over their heads and food on their plates when no one else would. I've seen children like them, who were so desperate and so without hope that they feel all the world is as cold and pitiless as those who turned a blind eye to their suffering. But, they know you're different. You've proven it every hour you've known them, and I believe they'll listen when you try to tell them what they need to know."

The Beoulve girl had to admit, the dragonkin's words had been badly needed. It was true that, more often than not, Alma had been groping desperately for some clue about how to do right by the children, not only by Manon and Charlotte but the others whom they'd brought in. As the number of children had grown from two and, now, inched its way towards thirty, the Beoulve girl saw that the burden of maintaining their newfound home was much lighter. This, in turn, gave those who'd risked life and limb for her sake during the war a chance to rest and, in the case of Ramza and Agrias, more time for each other and little Rachel. No one truly knew how long the children would be staying or, indeed, under what terms. But, after seeing so much suffering during the war, Ramza had ultimately agreed when Alma wanted to do at least something to help mend at least a few of Ivalice's lingering wounds. Apart from their new newfound jobs, shelter, and salaries, the children also had a teacher who'd been recruited from the city and now taught them how to read, write, and work numbers. So, if any of them ultimately chose to leave, they'd be better able to make their way in the world beyond the foreboding fortress.

The Beoulve girl found herself wondering if it was some burgeoning maternal instinct that made her eyes sting at the prospect of any of the children leaving, but she consoled herself with knowing that, if she did right by them, they'd be fine. She just had to do her best.

And, perhaps, that would be enough.

"What I'd give for even a drop of your confidence," Alma replied, still daunted but not nearly as much so as before. "Still, I'll do what I can. For them, and my baby."

"You'd be surprised how many 'parents' there are who won't even do that much," the dragonkin said soberly. "But, for now, we'd best be going. The bouquet toss is coming up."

In a supreme irony, the bundle of flowers - and, with it, the presumption of who'd be next to marry - landed right in Alma's arms. All too aware of just how prophetic that might prove, and all the implications therein, her evening was a long and solemn one.

SSSSSS

"So I guess this is good-bye then, Sir Damien?" Gerde asked as she helped Izlude load the last of his things into Nelly's saddlebags.

Izlude did not respond right away, his swirling thoughts drowning out her words as he tallied up his newfound wealth and how it might aid him in his quest to reunite with Alma.

The rest of his possessions, which included one-eighth of the Moonsharks' vast collection of loot, had briefly presented Izlude with a conundrum. While he knew that even a fraction of the undead bandits' hoarded plunder would be enough to buy a small barony, he'd been at a loss as to how he could possibly take it all with him. With only a single mount, he could only carry a tiny fraction per trip, and he was quite certain he didn't have that kind of time, whereas taking it all at once would mean hiring an entire caravan of wagons. Even then, it would be slow going as the wagons would be heavily laden no matter how many they numbered, and at least some of the treasure was likely to be lost due to the jostling of the wagons, mishaps on the road, or even theft by the porters. Luckily, ever the businessman, Aldrich had posed a solution which would allow for mutual benefit. To Izlude's perplexity, he pulled out what appeared to be a collection of handbills. He passed a handful to the knight blade, and he saw that they were stamped with such numerals as ones, fives, tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds, and even thousands. Each also featured a small portrait. Some were of King Delita, others Queen Ovelia, and still more displayed the faces of such past monarchs as King Denamda IV, King Omdoria III, and others. Interestingly, Queen Ruvelia was conspicuously absent.

Interesting, but not surprising.

Aldrich must've noticed Izlude's confusion and, like any salesman, needed no encouragement to offer explanation. Apparently, these paper bills were known as 'traveler's money'. It had been created recently by the newly appointed Chancellor Olan Durai as an alternative medium of trade, and these had been gaining popularity among travelers and merchants due to its convenience. Gil and goods which had once been a great deal of hassle to transport from province to province due to their sheer weight could now be converted to these paper bills, which now were accepted at any town or city in Ivalice. Although the new paper currency was not designed to replace gold outright - as the value of the gold dictated the value of paper currency in a fashion which, despite Aldrich's best efforts, went clear over Izlude's head - it did offer an alternative to carrying around heavy, bulging pouches of gold which could be stolen or tear open and spill their precious contents for all to snatch up. In this fashion, Izlude could convert his loot into its equivalent value in traveler's money and, thus, be able to take his newfound riches with him in one trip.

Izlude could see the value of such a system, as it would have been impossible for him to transport all of his goods to Lesalia with only one mount. Aldrich did advise him to keep at least some of his assets in gold as a hedge against something called 'inflation' and, not wanting to display the depths of his ignorance, Izlude nodded his agreement and packed what golden articles he could onto Nelly.

"Would you two like to be alone?" Gerde cut in teasingly as she pointedly sat on the baguette sized gold ingot Izlude had been loading into his saddlebag.

"Oh!" he blurted, an embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sorry about that, Gerde. It's just...a bit overwhelming. When I got here, I barely had enough gil to fill one pocket and now...I'm at a loss for words!"

And, so he was as he found his hand wandering to his pocket where the holy stone was hidden. So far, very little, if anything that had happened to him had stemmed from sheer luck. Whether it was his resurrection, his surviving the flood at Fort Besselat, his encounter with Nicholas Rof, who had warned him of the haunting of the Gollund mines, or his victory over the Moonshark phantoms, Izlude could only shake his head in awe at recollections which barely seemed real to him. But, it was more than just how the stone had guided him, all but unscathed, through one harrowing escapade after another. By guiding him to Gollund, and later to Nicholas Rof, it had also given Izlude a chance to, at least in part, atone for his actions during the War of the Lions.

For the longest time since Hashmalum had revealed his true self, guilt had been weighing upon Izlude over what he had done at the disguised demon's bidding. The uprising against the crown and the nobility, which was at the center of the High Confessor's agenda for the church to supplant the monarchy, called for Ivalice's myriad crises to deepen until, seeing that the highborn had no solution to offer, the people turned to the church instead. Thus, an insidious campaign had been waged to undermine the crown's ability to protect its people, though those who felt the blow most keenly were humble folk like those who worked in those mines. The Church's machinations, which Izlude had played a key role in, had caused many entrepreneurs like Aldrich to fail and their workers to end up on the street with no coin to feed their families.

Izlude had done much to cause such hardship, unaware that such 'necessary sacrifices' were being dictated by demons who sought to see all humanity grovel in bondage. It felt good to have prevented such hardship for once. And, more than that, the sword he had taken becoming bathed in divine radiance had also been a powerful omen to his troubled heart. If he'd truly been as tainted by evil as he'd sometimes suspected, the sword would've incinerated him.

It didn't.

In fact, he'd been able to use it. Whether this meant his penance had been paid, or that he'd never been tainted at all, or whether whatever power ruled the heavens was simply willing to give him a chance to do some good with his second life, Izlude could not be certain. What he was certain of was that he would use these riches to finance his bid to win Alma's heart and to give her the happy life he'd sworn to before Hashmalum's claws had cut short his first life.

"I can imagine," Gerde said, laying a hand on Izlude's shoulder and giving him a comradely squeeze. "I've worked for Aldrich before, and I can't even remember the last time I saw him in such high spirits. I think he was ready to make you a full partner in the Consortium, but I'm guessing you have other plans?"

"Yes… I must head for Lesalia with all haste," Izlude replied, a sigh parting his lips as he thought about who, he hoped, would be waiting for him there. "There is someone there I must meet."

"Someone special?"

"Very special." Though he knew he had to keep his true identity, and Alma's, a secret, he saw little harm in telling Gerde that much. And, after having spent so much time concocting an intricate web of half-truths and cover stories for his persona as 'Damien Mitchell', telling even some of the truth felt almost cathartic. "You probably don't know this but, during the war, I've done some things I'm...not proud of. She set me straight, made me want to be a better man. And, even before I listened, she had faith in me. But, I knew I'd need to make something of myself before I could be with her."

"She must be a helluva woman if you were willing to carve your way through a horde of ghosts for a second date."

"Well, we actually got passed 'dating'," Izlude admitted, letting out a nervous chuckle.

"Oh, you stud!" Gerde exclaimed, laughing heartily as she swatted Izlude on the back, but her tone soon turned to one of understanding. "It does put a few things in perspective, though. I don't truly regret my decision to join the Nanten, but there are a lot of things from back then that I wish I could forget. For what it's worth, though, I think you have a lot less to feel guilty about. You saved the Consortium, and the jobs of hundreds of good people. Not to mention making sure the revenue we get from mining can be used to help rebuild Ivalice, which could make a big difference in thousands and thousands of lives. Someone who cares enough about their fellow man to do that, and risk their lives doing it? Well, whoever it is you want a second roll in the hay with is a lucky woman."

Well, we'd already had the 'second' some time ago, but no need to tell her that much, Izlude mused, though he still felt touched by the former Nanten's words.

After securing his saddlebags, he rose and offered his hand, which Gerde accepted and clasped with a grip that could make more than a few men wince.

"I'm not sure if we'll see each other again, but I hope we will," he told her, somehow not surprised at how much he meant it. "I will miss you, your father, and the rest of your crew. I haven't had many friends since back then, and there were times I doubted that would change. But, I'm glad I was wrong."

Again, he wasn't surprised by the depth of feeling behind the pronouncement. When he'd first begun his new life under the guise of Damien Mitchell, he'd been leery of anything that might alert the church to him still being alive, fumbling his way through even casual conversation about his origins and worried that approaching Ramza and company openly would see him slain over what he'd gotten Alma into...

...and not just by virtue of her abduction.

He'd found himself wondering if he'd have to live as a phantom, cut off from what few Templars had survived the war and with the same web of lies that kept him alive unable to withstand the scrutiny of even simple companionship.

Yet, as he'd met people like the Fredericks, Sir Alain, the Boulder Devils, Claudio, and Aldrich, he found himself thinking that, even if he'd have to create a new life out of his new persona, perhaps he did not have to live that life alone. And, though he'd never forget the loyal Sir Justin and the others he'd once known, it felt good that his solitude had been brief.

He would be at Alma's side, this he swore by his very soul, but he'd also discovered that, as his new life took shape, he could also discover new friends who could populate that life.

He'd made quite a few friends already, and he hoped he could make more. A lot more.

"I hope we do see each other again," Gerde agreed, a hint of mischief entering her tone. "I'm sure she'll get a kick out of how much of a lightweight you are at the drinking table."

The knight blade flushed, remembering, if somewhat vaguely, how Georg had been in rare form when he'd organized the impromptu celebration after Izlude had vanquished the phantasmal Moonsharks. Izlude didn't think he'd done that bad.

It had taken nine mugs of ale before he'd emptied his stomach and passed out, which was an improvement over the usual five.

"Oh, the tales to be told!" Gerde intoned ominously. "If nothing else, you did impress us with your falsetto when you decided to join in the tavern ballad."

I...I WHAT?! Izlude silently blurted, horrified.

"Well, considering that you have so much to carry, even after converting most of your share of the Moonsharks' loot to paper money, you're fortunate that a caravan traveling to Lesalia has come to town," she went on, pointedly not bothering to enlighten Izlude as to the indignities he'd drunk himself into. "I'm sure it would be good for you to have some company on the way to the capital rather than traveling alone."

I know I'm not supposed to expect you to save me from everything, he silently told the holy stone, but, I'd be willing to take my chances with the next group of undead if you could make everybody forget whatever it was I did last night!

As often happened when whatever mind or heart dictated the stone's actions seemed disinclined to comply, the stone answered with an admonishing pulse of energy. Still, he knew that a caravan passing by Gollund on the way to Lesalia at just the right time for him to hitch a ride could only be attributed to the power of the holy stone. Ever since it had breathed life back into his lungs, it had been manipulating situations and circumstances in his favor over the last few months. How and why it did this, and why it would do so for him of all people, he still did not know. But, he did know that, in the wrong hands, these stones could be more dangerous than any number of swords or spells. And, just as it was his responsibility to return to Alma's side and love her as he'd promised, he must also make sure that the stone was kept far from anyone who could draw forth its less benign powers.

"Yes, you're right." Izlude answered, somehow managing to force a hazy image of drunken duets from his recoiling mind.

After they had finished loading the last of Izlude's newfound riches onto Nelly, Gerde watched as Izlude handed his mount over to one of the caravan members to take to the back of the long line of wagons that numbered twelve in all. "So, what will you and your father do now, Gerde?" the knight blade asked.

Gerde smiled. "Mr. Aldrich says that now that the ghosts are gone, several miners have returned and the project can continue on schedule. There will still be risks, but at least they can work without fear of being pelted to death by rocks or their own tools flying into their faces. As for father...well, I think last night told you that he'll be on his feet again before long. He and I discussed what we'll be doing next with the rest of our group, and we've decided to stick around here a bit longer before moving on. So, it looks like we'll be going our separate ways then. I don't know if we'll meet again, Sir Damien. But, whether we do or not, I hope you get that girl of yours. Who knows? Maybe someday, we'll meet again and I can see just what sort of girl it takes to get you so besotted."

"I'd like that, Gerde," Izlude said as he gave his friend a hug. "In fact, she might too." While relieved that he wouldn't have to match drinks with Georg anymore, the knight blade had to admit that he was going to miss the jolly old man as well as his spunky daughter. As he himself had said, friends has been scarce for him of late. But, the ones he had made had done much to ease his heavy heart.

"Good luck to you, Sir Damien," Gerde said.

"You too, Gerde," Izlude replied. "Give my best wishes to your father and friends. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

After letting go of his friend, Izlude turned and climbed aboard the nearest wagon. As soon as he was safely inside, the caravan master gave the signal and the wagons lurched into motion. Though the ever-shrinking distance between him and Alma soon had him twitching with anticipation, Izlude tried to calm himself as he considered what to do next. The unexpected discovery of the Moonsharks' loot, and securing a portion of it, had given him a war chest that a baron would envy, and he chaffed at the knowledge that the journey to Lesalia would take at least another week. Still, the knight blade supposed he should count himself fortunate. After all, he'd have that much more time to hone his persona as Damien Mitchell and to plan out how he'd catch the eye of Catherine Seymour, known to a very few as Alma Beoulve. He was also curious about Lesalia itself. Considering that he had not been back to the crown jewel of Ivalice in almost a decade, and that Lesalia had been a veritable lightning rod around which the storm of the War of the Lions had roiled, it was safe to assume that much had changed, especially with a new king and queen on the throne.

More than once, he allowed his mind to wander to what would happen after he had won Alma's hand. However he might reveal himself to be Izlude, a boon he hoped the stone would see fit to grant, he pondered what their lives would be like after their reunion. Would they live in Lionel Castle with, presumably, her brother? If so, Izlude found himself hoping that the vision he'd had of Ramza being joined by Malak and Meliadoul, both former enemies of his, meant that the young Beoulve was a most forgiving man.

Izlude had nearly met his end on Ramza's blade once already, and he wasn't keen on finding out just how often the holy stone could, or would, undo death.

However, another scenario also presented itself.

In addition to his portion of the Moonsharks' loot, Aldrich had also been keen to give Izlude an owner's share of the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium. Aldrich had also needed to explain that. This explanation had been much more scrutable...but also added a further layer of questions to the matter of Izlude's future. As a shareholder, he was, essentially, investing in the profitability of the Consortium and his role as a shareholder would mean that, when the Consortium was profitable, a portion of the returns would belong to him.

Given the prospects the company had, with the phantoms destroyed and Ivalice clamoring for their services, Izlude imagined that the return on his investment could be sizable.

However, this also came with certain responsibilities. He would be expected to contribute to the Consortium's financial well-being by retaining his shares, if not buying more, as well as fulfilling such functions as voting on major contracts and changes to company policy, as well as acting as a representative where possible to help the Consortium grow and prosper all the more. If, for instance, the Consortium sought shipping contracts in Lionel's port city of Warjilis, Izlude would be expected to vote either for or against the motion and, if it passed and he was living in Lionel, to aid in brokering the deal with the local shipping interests.

Although Izlude knew he'd need to learn how to be more than a knight in this new Ivalice, what was entailed by retaining the shares struck him as entering some exceptionally deep waters, even if it meant he'd have that much more money with which to support Alma and, hopefully, their children.

He supposed he could hire someone with a greater understanding of such matters to fulfill these duties on his behalf, as Aldrich told him was permissible, or even sell his shares. Either would give him more time to spend with Alma rather that traipsing about Ivalice. Though Izlude had come to respect and like Aldrich, he was nonplussed at being so wedded to the man's business when he sought a wedding of a very different sort and was leery at the idea of having to travel so often to aid in supporting the Consortium.

But, then again, what if Alma came with him?

Having had to adopt a false identity of her own, might she also have grappled with the same loneliness he'd felt not so long ago? Perhaps it would be better if she came with him on his travels and met some of the people who'd enriched his life, saw those she'd sought to help her brother save now prospered, and visited other parts of the realm which had been snatched away from the clawed grip of the Lucavi. Perhaps, that way, when their children were old enough to understand what the War of the Lions was and how much blood, toil, tears, and sweat had gone into mending Ivalice afterwards, it would be a source of pride to know that their parents had had a hand in making Ivalice a great nation once again.

And perhaps, if Alma was lonely as Catherine Seymour, as Izlude had been those first few weeks as Damien Mitchell, perhaps traveling about at Aldrich's beck and call would help both to fill their new lives with life.

Enticing a vision though it was, Izlude sensed he was getting much too far ahead of himself and tamed his musings in favor of preparing himself for his reunion with the Beoulve girl who'd been his captive and who'd yet ensnared him instead.

The first three days and nights passed with almost maddening slowness, and Izlude found his excitement giving way to impatience. Were he not carrying so much money, along with some perfume, jewelry, and other baubles from the Moonsharks' loot he had chosen to keep as gifts for Alma, Izlude could have ridden on Nelly and arrived in Lesalia by now. But, since the caravan had to stop by several towns on the way to the capital to sell and trade their goods, Izlude knew that it would be slow going. Not only would the goods need to change hands, but the chocobos who drew the wagons would need to be fed and allowed to rest, lest they suffer injury or be blown. Either of which would mean the animal would have to be healed carefully or put down, delaying the caravan badly whatever the case.

And, of course, that was leaving aside the merchants in the caravan who would need to periodically stop to eat, pitch camp or seek lodgings at an inn, and then get the whole mass of wheels and axels rolling again.

Still, when Izlude was able to master his frustration, he chanced upon something that would help both to relieve his boredom and to hone his persona as Damien Mitchell. One evening by the caravan's campfire, Izlude noticed that one of the other caravan members was reading a book which immediately caught the knight blade's interest.

A History of Romanda

Izlude quickly realized that that book might very well be worth several ingots like the one Gerde had sat on when she'd tired of him obliviously packing his loot while she'd been trying to bid him a proper farewell. Fortunately, simply pleading that he was of Romandan descent, and was curious about the ancestral homeland he'd never laid eyes on, had been enough to persuade the man to loan him the volume. And, more than a treatise on how to add some Romandan character to his persona, it was also one of the most fascinating books Izlude had read in a long time.

As a child, Izlude remembered how he had often complained to his mother about how cold winters in South Lesalia were. After reading this book, however, he realized that the winters from his childhood, even the harsh one that regularly blanketed Gollund, were nothing compared to those of the northern continent. Unlike Ivalice and Ordalia, Romanda was almost literally a land of snow and ice, with long, bleak winters lasting nearly eight months out of the year. Apart from some rather graphic tales of how potent a natural defense this proved in times of invasion, this was also credited with causing the distinct paleness of her people. What's more, unlike Ivalicians and Ordalians, nearly all Romandans had the same hair and eye color: black and grey.

As a child, Izlude was given only a cursory education in school regarding the history of the northern continent, but this book went into much more detail. In particular, he learned about how, during its inglorious Third Expansion, the Holy Ydoran Empire - which, at the time, encompassed Ivalice and Ordalia - turned its sights, and armies, northward. Though the Romandan army was small, in part because their infamous guns could only be manufactured in modest quantities, their deadly accuracy and the sheer shock and terror of their weapons' report made them deadly, even against far greater numbers. The Romandan hand gunners and pistoliers, sharpshooters trained in using their guns from atop chocobos bred for fighting in winter-locked climates, specialized in hit-and-run tactics, aided by heavy cloaks made from the fur of exotic white bears native to their lands, which made them nearly invisible amidst the snow laden winds. And, on top of that, Romanda was also defended by her deadly weather. At times during the campaign, it would grow so cold that wagons and mounts alike floundered, men vanished into deep snow drifts never to be found, food turned hard as stones, equipment became brittle and shattered, and fingers, toes, and even entire limbs became so frostbitten they had to be hewn off. The author of the text cited the disastrous campaign as one of the reasons St. Ajora was able to garner such success when he appeared later in history though, after seeing what a 'holy' stone could do in the wrong hands, Izlude was nonplussed at the assertion. Conversely Romanda's brief involvement in the Fifty Years War was believed to have been because Ivalice's much warmer climate was so different from theirs that they could not adapt to it quickly enough for daily living, let alone fighting, and Ivalice's comparatively rare and sparse snow rendered many of their tactics useless.

Still, apart from a land with a fascinating history, he also found tidbits that would make his persona as a man of Romandan descent more convincing. He meditated on what his upbringing might have looked like, had he been raised as Damien Mitchell supposedly had. Quite possibly, his family would've included many aspects of his ancestral homeland in his childhood, such as anecdotes of their history and, likely, traditional Romandan cuisine would have crossed their table more than once. As it turned out, the local culture section of the book contained descriptions of such dishes. Some of them, such as mushroom strudel, kasha with oranges and raisins, and fermented shark, struck him as peculiar while such confections as bread pudding, cured salmon, and breaded pork cutlets had him pondering if there might be time to locate a Romandan cookbook during his time in Lesalia.

In any case, this book would prove invaluable since, if his 'Romandan heritage' turned out to be as obvious to others as it did to Sir Alain, it would raise some questions. And, it would behoove the knight blade to have some answers ready.

The knight blade had just finished reading the entire book, so startled it had ended, that he only belatedly noticed a middle-aged merchant had boarded the wagon and seated himself across from him. So pre-occupied was he with his reading that he didn't even notice that the caravan had made yet another stop to pick up more passengers.

"I'm sorry, sir, did I startle you?" The merchant asked after noticing the look of surprise on Izlude's face.

"No, of course not, you've no need to apologize. I was just so caught up in my reading that I didn't even notice the wagon had stopped," Izlude blubbered, hardly needing to feign his embarrassment. "Sorry about that. My name is Damien Mitchell, what's yours?"

"Josef Fischer. Pleased to meet you!"

"Likewise," Izlude said politely, skimming the book as he discreetly made some notes for future use, in case the porter he'd borrowed the book from wanted it back and the knight blade was unable to find another copy.

"Must be quite an engrossing tome," the merchant quipped, almost sounding put out.

"My apologies," Izlude said sheepishly, closing the book and setting it aside. "I've been...wanting to remind myself of my roots for some time, and I guess I got a bit caught up in it."

Izlude decided that, if he was to pass himself off as a third generation immigrant from Romanda, it might seem more believable if he was relearning what his forbearers had already taught him than that he was learning it for the first time.

"Can't say I blame you," the merchant replied, obliquely accepting the apology. "Even if we don't like the answer, we all deserve to know where we came from. Helps make where we're going, and why, clearer. Just between us, though, is it true Romandans eat shark?"

"Never tried it myself, but yes," Izlude replied, deciding to test himself on his newfound knowledge. "It's called Hákarl, and it needs to be buried for weeks and then hung for months before you can actually eat it. I've heard that good things are worth waiting for, but that's pushing it."

The merchant chuckled at that, and as Izlude pondered what to say next, he noticed what appeared to be a golden locket dangling from one of the merchant's pouches. It was shaped like a heart and, at its center, was a beautifully cut red ruby. The locket looked familiar to him, so he decided to ask Josef about it. "Excuse me, Mr. Fischer, that gold locket you have there. Where did you come by it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, you mean this? Well, I got this a few months ago at Riovanes from a young lady. Very lovely, I might add. Slender build, bright blue eyes, luscious blonde hair. She said she needed a dagger, but was a bit short of money. So, she offered this locket in trade. I swear, it made my heart ache to see a girl peddling something too beautiful for a sliver of iron, but I did as she asked. I didn't like having to do it, but I needed to keep away the bill collectors, after all. Since the locket was worth far more than anything I had on me, I thought it only fair to trade her my finest dagger for it."

Upon hearing this revelation, Izlude was startled. A young blonde lady with bright blue eyes? A dagger? "I see. If you'll pardon my asking, who was she, Mr. Fischer?"

"Unfortunately, I didn't catch her name. But, I do remember her as being very lovely and kind, which is why I couldn't figure out for the life of me why she would want to trade such a valuable possession of hers for a weapon not worth even a fraction as much. Perhaps she'd attracted unwanted eyes and needed something with which to protect herself?"

Oh, you'd be surprised…, Izlude thought, valiantly keeping his expression neutral. But, instead of letting slip just whose eyes Alma had attracted, he simply asked "Would you be willing to sell it to me? I have my eye on a lady in Lesalia, and think it would make a lovely gift."

"Oh, is that so?" the merchant asked, smiling broadly. "Well, I suppose you're at that age. And, if there's a place for finding fine ladies, Lesalia be it."

"Indeed. How much do you want for it? Trust me, money isn't an issue for me now."

"Ahh…I see. Well, judging from the look of this locket, I'd say it's worth about three hundred gil. Is that fair?"

"Deal," Izlude said without a second thought. After he paid for the locket, Izlude made a show of continuing with his studies, waiting for the merchant to fall asleep. Once the man was snoring contentedly, Izlude quietly opened the locket and, within, he discovered the engravings which confirmed his suspicions.

July 24, 981

Alma's birthday.

To my cherished little sister, Alma. Happy birthday! May you have many more filled with happiness and joy!

Love, your big brother, Zalbag.

So the locket was indeed Alma's. When he had first confronted the Beoulve girl during her brief captivity in Riovanes's dungeon, Izlude remembered seeing that piece around her neck. Later, he'd learned it was a favorite of hers and that she wore it every day. He hadn't noticed that it was missing from around her neck until the night he'd proposed to her, but he'd been so happy she'd accepted that he did not think to question her about it, until…

As he held Alma's locket in his hand, sifting the gold rope chain through his fingers, Izlude's thoughts went back to the first night he'd taken Alma into his bed. Even well after the fact, it still amazed him how, after years of skillfully resisting the advances of other women, from servant girls he grew up with in his parents' home to highborn girls who wouldn't have been out of place at a royal ball, the spunky cleric had quickly, and easily, tore through his resistance and he had willingly broken his vows of celibacy for her. Such an act - and with an accused heretic, no less - would have easily proven sufficient grounds for Izlude to be dismissed from the Knights Templar, were it ever discovered. Even his father, the commander of the Templar, would not have been able to spare Izlude such a dishonor.

Izlude had known this, practically since he was a boy, and yet he'd proven powerless against the tide of affection that swelled in him at the thought of his 'captive'.

All unmarried Templars, male and female, were required to take vows of celibacy before the high confessor himself, which were to be upheld until they wed. Those who lost their spouse, such as Vormav, renewed these vows until they married again, if they ever did. Any Templar who was discovered as having broken these vows was cast out of the order in disgrace and, given how often Izlude stole into Alma's chambers at night back in Riovanes, it would have only been a matter of time before his comrades discovered the true nature of his relationship with his 'captive'…

SSSSSS

The night was cold and silent and, though tendrils of icy air lapped atIzlude's chest, the lithe form of the woman curled up near him was more than enough to stave off the chill. Izlude could not help but smile drowsily at how things had changed between them since they'd met, and how different Alma seemed now from the hissing hellcat who'd nearly scratched his eyes out but days before. Now, she slept peacefully as he cradled her against his chest, though his drowsy grip belied how her grip on him was the stronger.

Barely a month ago, the knight blade would never have even considered bedding a woman outside of marriage, let alone one he was keeping as a hostage, but Alma had set his mind awhirl since he'd first laid eyes on her. Granted, his first thought had been how the hell she could rake her nails against his face so without breaking them, but he'd later seen that she was far more than either a pampered nobleman's daughter or a hissing hellcat. Even bound and shackled, it had been obvious she was a beautiful woman and, later, he'd found her to be very different than the other highborn ladies he'd known. Whereas most of them thought very little about anything unrelated to their wardrobes or their jewelry or other such frivolities, Alma was intelligent, charming, tenacious, and thoughtful. Her seeming naiveté, which he'd once regarded as the sole explanation for why she'd continued to support her fugitive brother, concealed a strength of conviction and forthrightness which many of her knightly line would have approved of. And, though Izlude had little reason to believe her impassioned arguments for Ramza, her loyalty and faith in her brother nonetheless commanded a respect in him that verged on being an act of heresy in and of itself.

The knight blade was roused from his introspection when he felt his bedmate stir and slowly pry herself out of his arms. He opened his eyes slightly for a brief moment to see Alma with her back to him as she bent over the edge of their bed, as if reaching for something underneath. What she was up to, he had no idea. It was obvious that she was taking great care to move very quietly and to not rouse him, unaware that he was already awake, and that birthed more than one dire musing as to her intent. But,he decided to feign sleep a little longer as he felt her slowly making her way back to him. For a stretching second, he heard only the smothered sound of anxious, ragged breathing, followed by another sound he knew all too well- the whisper of a blade as it was drawn from its sheath.

The knight blade immediately caught on to what his bedmate was up to, and part of him wasn't even surprised. After all, demure though she'd seemed as she'd shyly kissed him, he also knew that she was still a prisoner here and, like any prisoner, her first thought was always escape. What's more, he knew that she was still loyal to her brother despite the vast evidence of his heresy. Wherever her brother's convictions stemmed, she shared them, and was, it seemed, prepared to gain her freedom by whatever means necessary. Yet, even as his every instinct told him to get up and snatch the weapon from her hands before she could end his life,another voice held him fast. Even after knowing her for so short a time, Izlude sensed the Beoulve girl to be among the purest of souls and that she would never shed another's blood in such a cold and vile manner. Indeed, his mind's eye showed the conflict in her face as clearly as if he were staring up at her. Her breathing, no longer smothered, became the sort of ragged heaving of air that acted as an accompaniment to the sort of indecision which arose when necessity and conscience went to war within ones very heart.

And so, he continued to lay there, awake yet unmoving, placing himself completely at the mercy of the young woman he had taken captive from Orbonne.Blind it might be, but knowing her, and able to sense how conflicted she felt, Izlude nonetheless had faith that she would not kill a defenseless man.

And, he was right. After what felt like half the night, he heard Alma choke back a sob and, with the sort of hearing which came only from a lifetime spent dodging well-honed steel, heard the dagger be gently lowered to her side. At that moment, Izlude finally opened his eyes and sat up to see his bed mate with the dagger he'd envisioned her holding over him but a moment ago. Thoughher duty to her brother urged her to slay her supposed enemy, her conscience - which condemned such an act, whatever its justification - proved the stronger.

"What's wrong, Alma? Aren't you going to kill me?"

"Izlude!" she gasped "You were awake?"

He smiled sadly. "I'm a light sleeper and my hearing is very sharp; I awoke as soon as I felt you stirring from the bed."

"You knew what I intended?"

Izlude shook his head. "Honestly? No. But I was able to catch on quickly once I heard the knife being drawn."

"Then why didn't you try to stop me?

As if in answer, Izlude reached over and gently pried the dagger from Alma's hand. After placing it on the night table, he took her in his arms and whispered in her ear:

"Because I know you, Alma; you are too kind, too gentle, and pure. You may kill only if your own life was threatened but never in cold blood; such a vile act is simply against your nature."

Izlude found his love staring at him in amazement. "Are you not angry with me?" She had expected him to at least berate her but there was no room in his heart for anger.

"And why would I be? If I was in your place, I could never kill the one I love."

"You mean…?"

"Yes, Alma. I love you. And if you still want my life, I will let you have it without a fight because it is yours now."

"But your life is your own."

"I give it to you..."

Shaking her head, she returned his embrace as she let the tears flow freely from her eyes. "No…I won't take your life because… I love you too, Izlude."

"Then be mine tonight…" he whispered as he reached down to pull her slip over her head and kissed her.

"Yes, my love…"

Seeing her tear-filled eyes told Izlude all he needed to know. A captive Alma might have been, but the jailer's keys had changed hands. By measures small and great, Izlude had become enchanted by Alma, so much so that he felt admiration rather than anger at her aborted attempt to kill him, and one look at her tear stained face was enough for him to tell that she felt the same about him. She couldn't bring herself to kill him, not only because such a dishonorable, vile act which went against all she held dear, but because she had fallen for him. The very man who'd abducted her from Orbonne and carried her to Riovanes against her will to be used as a trump card against her brother.

As a young, unmarried Templar, Izlude had vowed upon his honor to remain celibate until the day he wed. But, seeing the woman he loved, weeping and disconsolate over what she'd nearly done, the urge to hold and comfort her quickly swelled into something more once he'd confessed his feelings for her and discovered that she returned them in kind. His vows, his honor, his duties, all were forgotten and cast aside as he was consumed by desire for his lovely captive.

Izlude remembered how easily Alma was seduced by him - so ironic considering that it was she who plotted to seduce and kill him to win her freedom - and that, despite her being a cleric, it was he who took vows of celibacy for the church, not her. And yet, he was willing to risk losing everything he had worked so hard for his entire life, just for a night in her arms. One kiss led to another and before they knew it, their clothes littered the floor and, after he had made her his, she was curled in his arms again as they slept peacefully once more, the dawn approaching and, with it, an uncertain future neither would trade for the world…

SSSSSS

Izlude was jolted awake when the wagon suddenly hit a bump, causing the hard floor beneath him to pitch upward and nearly send him sprawling. When he came to, his gaze darted all about and, after a moment's perplexity that his beloved was nowhere in sight, he realized that he must've fallen asleep while examining Alma's locket and had relived his first night with her in his dreams. It had seemed a lifetime ago, yet he recalled it all so vividly...

...so vividly, in fact, that he suddenly found himself wondering if any in the caravan had deduced just what manner of gem he'd unearthed from beneath the veil of memory.

"Morning, good sir," a familiar voice rang out, leaving Izlude frantically suppressing a blush. "It looks like you've finally come to. Did you sleep well last night?" Fischer asked. From the look of things, the merchant appeared to have woken long before Izlude himself.

"Oh, I didn't even realize I fell asleep!" Izlude laughed as he wondered just how long his fellow passenger had been sitting there watching him. "Have you been awake long?"

"About a half hour or so," Fischer answered with ominous nonchalance. "I noticed you were mumbling in your sleep; you must have quite a lot on your mind, no?"

"Well, yes, you can say that. Did you hear what I was saying?" the knight blade asked nervously, hoping that he had not revealed any information about himself that may cause him trouble. And, even if he hadn't, he shuddered to contemplate the humiliation this journey would turn into if it got around that he'd had such a dream in their company.

"Honestly, I couldn't make out what you were saying at all," the merchant answered, shrugging as though he cared little in any case. "It sounded like gibberish to me. But, that's nothing to be embarrassed about; my wife used to say I mumble all kinds of incoherent nonsense in my sleep as well!" Fischer laughed as Izlude gave a sigh of relief. It looked like the holy stone had protected his secrets yet again.

Somewhat desperate to change the subject, Izlude asked "So what do you plan on doing once we reach Lesalia, Mr. Fischer?"

"Oh, I'm actually going home," the merchant answered. "I've spent the last half year doing business in Gallione and Favoham, and my wife and children will be expecting me back now that the war is over. I live in Central Lesalia, and I'm just glad we were well away from the city with all that happened during the war. Between that, and what I hear happened at Riovanes after I left, I'm thinking it might be best to find a way to keep my business closer to home from now on. What about you, good sir?"

"I am actually from the city of Yardow," Izlude answered, knowing he'd need his cover story to be well rehearsed. "I have a friend who lives in South Lesalia that I'm visiting for the next few days."

Curiously, a strange expression crossed the merchant's face at hearing this. One eyebrow crooked, as though in perplexity, before both eyebrows shot up into the merchant's hairline and he barked out a hearty laugh.

"Ahh…I see. So, you're not going to Lesalia to join the veritable legion of men vying for the hand of Catherine Seymour, the New Duchess of Lionel?" the merchant teased, his words punctuated by more laughter.

Izlude was startled at the sudden question. "Wh-what makes you think that?" he blurted, unable to keep a note of anxiety from his tone.

The merchant laughed again, this time so heartily that it made him cough. "Oh, come now, I know of no single young man who isn't interested in Duchess Seymour. I've run into dozens of young-uns like yourself who ask me what're the best gifts to get her attention. "Who better to ask than a happily married man?" they be thinking. Well, they're right. But, if you want my advice, the way to a good woman's heart is not through coin or other worldly goods. She must grow to love the man for who he is. Not his charms nor his purse, but for the manner of man beneath the surface. You know what I mean?"

Izlude could not help but smile at just how well this merchant, who had only met Alma once and had no idea that she and Catherine were one and the same, could have such keen insight into her character. Fischer was right, Alma was not the kind of woman who could be bought with money, even though Izlude felt it was still important that he had something to offer her. Apart from proof that he had made something of himself and that he had, in some small measure, done something to rectify the pain and suffering he'd caused while acting at the behest of the high confessor and the disguised Hashmalum, he also knew that she was still going to need a home once she wed and moved out of her brother's house.

Whether they stayed in Lionel, so Alma could still be close to Ramza, whether they moved hither and yon as they aided Aldrich in rebuilding Ivalice, or whether their lives traced some other path altogether, Izlude would make sure the trove he'd discovered and won with his sword arm would keep Alma safe and well. And, more importantly, that she would have his undying love as he had promised before that fateful day at Riovanes.

"Yes, I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Fischer," he affirmed

And, more than you'll ever know… he silently added.

SSSSSS

All through the journey to Lesalia Castle, Alma had found herself fervently wishing that Ramza and Agrias would learn to control themselves.

Whether it was how they'd become well and truly oblivious to her presence as Ramza was lavishing Agrias' neck with kisses or the mingled envy and trepidation of watching Agrias bounce Rachel on her knee while the baby giggled merrily, the Beoulve girl could not say. All she could say, however, was that she wished the pair could stop acting like such fawning lovebirds.

As they approached the outskirts of Lesalia, however, she got her wish...

...and soon wished she hadn't.

Ramza had been about to bring Rachel up to the window, no doubt to show her some pretty clouds or a bird, when his grin abruptly faded and he set his daughter on the carriage floor, hurriedly giving the baby a stuffed bear to occupy herself. That done, the young Beoulve, who was quickly joined by Agrias, stared out the window, shock and sadness writ large on their features.

Curious, and more than a bit worried, Alma sidled over and joined them in staring out the window. Greeting her was a sight that had brought her to tears when she'd accompanied Zalbag to Lesalia when he had, very, briefly restored order to the chaos which had tarnished the jewel of Ivalice.

The shanty towns.

Decrepit, filthy, cramped, dreary, looking as likely to topple over as not; even seeing them from the comparative safety of their carriage was enough to make Alma guide one hand to her belly, as though seeking to cover the eyes of her baby, lest he or she see how many scars lingered upon the world which awaited.

"This doesn't make sense," Ramza thought aloud.

"Does war ever make sense?" Alma asked, her eyes already watering as one particular bit of that same senselessness roared to the forefront of her thoughts.

"No, not just that. Look, and look carefully. What don't you see?"

Where do I start? Alma mused sadly. I don't see a place anyone would come to willingly. I don't see a place anyone would want to linger in. I don't see any place I'd want to bring a child, or an elder, or anybody I care for. I don't see...wait a minute!

"Where are all the people?" she asked, only belatedly realizing that the dismal sprawl of hovels seemed all but deserted.

"I'd heard tell that Delita was able to resettle them," Agrias spoke up. "It was when I was shopping for my wedding gown. There were rumors that he'd allowed the purchase of land from distressed nobles, and that new villages and towns were being built. As far as anyone knows, nearly all of the refugees will be able to move in by the end of autumn."

"But, if that's true, why leave all this standing?" Alma asked, bewildered. "If Delita managed to clear out this slum, why not tear it down and give the debris to the poor as firewood, or something like that? It doesn't make any sense for him to just leave it here after everyone was able to move out and start building better lives."

"You're right, it doesn't," Ramza agreed grimly. "I have a bad feeling about this."

On the heels of that oddity came another when they approached Lesalia's gates...or, rather, what was left of them. No less bizarre than the empty slum, there was only a gaping hole where once there'd been the ornate portal which led into the shining heart of Ivalice. Instead, pavilions flying the Chimera standard flanked the gap and, after the identification papers Delita had provided were accepted and the attendant Chimera knights waved them through, the trio saw that, contrary to her ruined gates, the city of Lesalia looked very nearly pristine.

Alma felt the blood begin to slowly drain out of her face as confusion slowly gave way to concern. What had Delita been thinking? The gates she might be able to understand, as rebuilding them would surely take months of constant labor and a huge sum of gil, but why would he leave the shanty towns untouched? Having grown up in something much akin to those loathsome hovels, he of all people knew the pain and suffering that went on in those slums and, after the terrible violence which had spread from there and into Lesalia, she doubted there was one soul who could look at that endless vista of poverty and despair without recalling just how much each and all had lost during the war. And, just as the hovels kept those wounds fresh, the still ruined gates also kept alive the fear that someday, somehow, it could all happen again.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Agrias said, echoing Alma's thoughts just as perfectly as she did Ramza's words.

Before the trio could make sense of these oddities, let alone decide what to do about Delita's inexplicable inactions, the carriage jerked to a halt. Belatedly, the small family saw that they had arrived at the gates of Lesalia Castle.

Ovelia was there to greet them, but Delita was nowhere in sight.

"Okay, now I'm worried," Alma admitted after seeing her brother and sister-in-law had noticed the same. After telling the two women to act as though nothing was amiss, at least until they had a chance to speak to Delita, the young Beoulve opened the door and stepped out of the coach.

"Here, Agrias, please take my hand." Ramza said, hiding his concern expertly as held out his hand to help his new wife step down, which was no easy task considering that she was holding their baby daughter in her arms.

"Of course, Drake," Agrias replied, taking care to use her new husband's alias as she took his hand and allowed him to help her from the carriage. Though she still bristled at Ramza's true name being the final casualty of the war, she had nonetheless been practicing the use of his pseudonym over the course of the last few weeks in order to protect his identity from those who would seek his head.

After Agrias was safely on the ground, Ramza offered his hand to his sister, who was right behind. Like his wife, she too carried precious cargo and had to be handled with care. After both Agrias and Alma were off, Ramza tossed the carriage driver a coin as a tip and sent him on his way before leading his wife and sister to the gates of Lesalia Castle. This close, and with so many eyes likely pointed in their direction, they didn't dare discuss the ominous peculiarities they'd witnessed on the way in. For now, they elected to wait and see if a chance to speak with Delita presented itself. If not, they would wait until their friends arrived and they could find somewhere private to concoct a plan. Rad, Lavian, and Alicia were not far behind and would be arriving soon, along with Beowulf, Reis, Manon and Charlotte. The former Templar, whose respect towards women was well known as being impeccable, had been quite eager to take Manon to task over the boy's less-than-chivalrous conduct while Reis, sensing that Ramza and company might have things to say regarding Ivalice's monarchs which were best kept private, had volunteered to see if Alma had gotten through to Charlotte after the latter's latest night spent nursing an ill-used stomach.

As they drew nearer, and caught sight of the new queen of Ivalice, Alma felt yet another chill ripple through her. Though Ovelia greeted them with a broad smile on her face, hiking up her skirts and breaking into a run, Alma could've sworn that she'd spied something more than delight on her old friend's face. There had been a fraction of a heartbeat of worry on her features just before the trio exited the coach and, afterwards, the Beoulve girl could swear that there'd been a hint of relief, the sort of desperate relief which might cross the face of one who'd spied a lit cabin after a night spent wandering a goblin infested wood, before Ovelia had thrown her arms around her former bodyguard. And, judging by the way Agrias' expression had hardened for an instant, she too saw that life had not become easier for her young charge since taking Ruvelia's place as queen.

"Oh, Agrias, I've missed you so much!" Ovelia cried, very nearly wailing the words before turning to the slumbering infant in the holy knight's arms. "Congratulations, Agrias! She is so adorable! May I?"

"Of course, Your Highness," the holy knight answered as she handed her infant daughter to her queen and watched as Ovelia gently rocked Rachel in her arms before turning to the young parents with a smile.

"How old is she?" she asked, smiling but strangely subdued.

"About two months," Ramza answered evenly. "I trust Delita has told you about her?"

"Yes, the king did inform me, Lord Seymour," Ovelia replied, and the Beoulve girl gulped silently at the queen's formal tone. "When I heard the news, I just couldn't wait to meet her. She's such a lovely girl. Congratulations to you both, I'm very happy for you."

After handing Rachel back to her parents, the queen turned to greet her other friend who had been watching in silence and gave her a hug as well. And, though Alma hoped she was reading much too far into the situation, she could not help but feel as though the grip Ovelia had on her was much like that with which a castaway at sea would grip a piece of flotsam to keep from drowning. Something was going on in Lesalia. Something bad.

As if I didn't have enough problems already," she mused despondently.

"Lady Catherine, welcome to Lesalia Castle," Ovelia said, carefully using her old friend's alias so as not to arouse the suspicions of any servants or guards within earshot. "I've been looking forward to meeting you as well. The king and I have been planning a ball for both you and Lord Drake, but especially for you. We must make haste, the first night of the ball starts tomorrow, so I must have my personal seamstresses start on your new gowns right away."

Alma was startled. New gowns? She didn't need any more gowns. Although she'd emerged from the Graveyard of Airships with but her school gown, which was in ghastly condition by then, Alicia and Lavian had, somewhat overzealously, rebuilt her wardrobe from the moment they could freely come and go from Lionel Castle. What was wrong with the, already too numerous, gowns she already had?

"Your Highness, you need not trouble yourself, really," Alma politely declined. "I do have enough of my own gowns and the ball is only going to be three nights, right?"

"Yes, but you and your brother are here to be introduced to the Ivalician public as the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel," Ovelia countered. "So, you must have the finest clothes and accessories. Not to mention you need to find a husband soon, if what the king told me about you is true..."

Still close enough that no one outside their huddle would notice, Ovelia had underscored her point by laying a hand on the Beoulve girl's belly. Alma blushed and wanted to argue, but seeing the concern in her friend's eyes made her think better of it. Perhaps Ovelia was right; it simply would not do for her, as Lionel's new duchess, to be introduced to the public looking anything less than perfection, for she knew Lesalian culture well enough to know that a poor first impression would hang over their heads for years. Not to mention that she needed to be wed as soon as possible, lest the child growing in her womb enter the world out of wedlock. By now, she was nearing her fourth month, and her gown had begun to pull tight about her belly.

In a matter of weeks, a blind man would be able to tell she was with child, and she shuddered to consider how being born fatherless would mark her child all his or her life.

"You're right, Your Highness," she conceded. "I will trust your judgment."

Ovelia breathed a sigh of relief that her normally stubborn friend wasn't going to argue with her on this. "Thank you. Please come inside, I already have rooms prepared for all of you and I will send my personal chief seamstress to your room to have you measured immediately."

After gesturing for Ramza and Agrias to move in closer, Ovelia added in a hushed tone "Annie is a good woman, and I trust her nearly as much as I trust Agrias. I am confident we can rely on her...discretion."

Alma hesitated for a moment as she turned to her brother and new sister-in-law, who nodded their approval.

"Go on, Catherine." Ramza urged. "The others and I will be fine. Once the castle servants are done bringing our things to our rooms, we'll catch up to you. You need to have your new gowns ready as soon as possible."

Here, Ramza too moved in close and his next words came as a whisper. "We'll see if we can find Delita on our own. Either way, you need to focus on yourself and your baby."

Alma sighed as she gave a quick curtsy before allowing Ovelia to take her hand and guide her into the castle, her eternally heavy heart weighed down all the more by what these dreadful oddities might signify.

Ovelia referring to Delita by his title rather than his name was particularly troubling, not only because Alma had thought them a loving pair but because it acted as an oblique sign of what Alma's own future might look like.

SSSSSS

If Alma hadn't been certain of the urgency of her situation before, she certainly was now.

Charlotte had not been the only young lady under 'Drake Seymour's' roof to have been gaining weight recently.

After one of the younger seamstresses had instructed her to undress, Alma found herself gaping at the mirror when she realized that she'd underestimated just how much she was showing. What she'd thought was a subtle curve of the belly was quite a bit more noticeable without her loose gown to conceal it. No less alarming, her once diminutive breasts had also begun to swell and her once narrow hips now flared wider. At the sight of her reflection and her secret being, quite literally, exposed, the Beoulve girl swore she could hear the sands of the hourglass sifting away as the inevitable drew nearer and nearer.

So stunned with the realization was Alma that she hadn't noticed the older woman with the measuring tape until the lengths of cloth were pulled tight about her person.

"Lady Catherine, how's this?" the seamstress, a plump woman in her forties, asked, drawing the measuring tape tight about Alma's waist as she measured her chest and bust as well as legs to determine her skirt length.

The Beoulve girl, who belatedly realized that was standing on a stool, started at the seamstress' question.

While Ovelia had the finest tailors and seamstresses at her beck and call to ensure that Alma's gowns would be made quickly and of the best quality possible, it had been a far greater relief that her chief seamstress, Annie Choxi, was also one of her closest confidants. The middle-aged woman, who had either been informed of Alma's situation or had easily guessed it, could be trusted to measure Alma's changing body and keep her pregnancy a secret by masterfully tailoring gowns that could conceal any hint of the child growing inside of her. There had been some concern about Annie's subordinates; but, luckily, it seemed they would simply adhere to her instructions without question.

"It's a bit tight, could you loosen it up a bit, please?" Alma asked politely.

"Of course, Lady Catherine," Annie said as she loosened the measuring tape. "How are you feeling, milady?"

"Oh, I'm fine, the measuring tape was just a bit too snug for comfort."

"I understand," Annie replied and, after a quick glance to make sure no one was present without her consent, added "Not to mention your child had best be handled delicately. Queen Ovelia has told me to take care, as carrying such precious cargo can make a woman more fragile. But you need not worry, I have much experience tailoring gowns for other women in your situation."

"You have?" Alma blurted out, startled.

"Yes, trust me, you are not the only women who's ever grown heavy with child before the nuptials." As Annie said this, Alma did not sense any hint of reproach, which she'd expected to hear once the older woman learned she was pregnant out of wedlock.

As if sensing her train of thought, Annie laughed. "You need not worry, milady, your secret is safe with me. I judge no one, for I know how easily it can come back to bite you when you're passing judgment on others when you've never walked in their shoes. In fact, I've even tailored such a gown for the late Queen Ruvelia back in the day."

Alma blinked. "You mean Queen Ruvelia was pregnant even before she married King Omdolia?"

Annie nodded. "Yes…and she was a bit further along than you. Her brother, the late Duke Larg, hired me to tailor some gowns for her. He was...beyond clear that he wanted no one who attended the royal couple's wedding to be able to tell that Queen Ruvelia was pregnant, and I knew better than to give him less than my utmost. By the sound of it, I'm guessing you were fooled?"

"I was probably too young to attend, but I never heard anyone mention it. Ever. Was King Omdolia the father?"

Annie shrugged. "Who knows? Given how sickly the former king was, it wouldn't have surprised me if none of the children Queen Ruvelia bore were his." As the seamstress said this, Alma could clearly hear the contempt which edged her voice. Though she never said so explicitly, Alma had the clear impression that Annie had no love or loyalty for her former liege; few people ever did, considering the former queen's spiteful nature and the way that her detractors tended to meet an untimely demise.

As though startled by her grim thoughts, the baby gave a sudden lurch, prompting Alma to forcibly direct her thoughts in a more pleasant direction...well, try to, at least.

"I see…," Alma said as she tried not to let the words sink in deep enough to reach her child. Sensing the Beoulve girl's discomfiture, Annie decided to change the subject.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't speak ill of the dead like that," Annie said, though Alma sensed that little of the older woman's contrition was directed at the deceased. "What about you, milady? I am curious to know what the father of your child was like."

"Oh, well, he was a Templar…," Alma replied; she might've considered the possibility that revealing even that much might be unwise but, with Ramza and the others likely tied up questioning Delita, and Manon and Charlotte still hours away, she felt too alone to not trust the older woman's discretion. "He was a very handsome one, to whom I was engaged briefly before he was killed in the war."

"A Templar? Was he a high-ranking one? From what I've heard, most of them were killed or had gone missing during the war, including their leader, Sir Vormav Tingel."

Alma shuddered at the name of the knight...or, rather, the demon who'd evicted the man's soul from his body and had attempted and failed to offer her as a sacrifice to Altima before answering. "No, he was but a junior officer. He perished in the incident at Riovanes, before we could wed. I still miss him, God rest his soul."

Annie frowned as she immediately regretted bringing up the baby's father.

"My apologies, milady. I didn't mean to dredge up such sad memories for you."

Alma shook her head. "No, not at all, please don't apologize. I feel that it's good for me to talk about him every now and then. It helps to keep his memory alive, and I think I needed to be reminded of what he would've wanted me to do if he knew...what was going to happen."

"I see. Well, whoever he is, I'm sure he would want you and your baby to live on and be happy."

"Yes, I believe so as well."

A/N: This chapter is longer than I originally thought so I'm going to split it in two. Once again, I'd like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this story possible. To all our readers, reviews are greatly appreciated since we both work so hard on this fic. Thanks a bunch!