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.

16. The Road to Lesalia, Part II

Chapter 13: The Road to Lesalia, Part 2

Once he'd heard the caravan's lead driver announce that they have finally arrived at Lesalia, Izlude vaulted to his feet, nearly cracking his head on the wagon's ceiling, and brushed aside the nearest flap to peek outside. After seeing that, at long last, he'd reached his destination, he thanked Fischer once more for the locket and bid the merchant farewell. Stretching the kinks out of his limbs, the knight blade snatched up his belongings and leapt off the wagon, rounding the caravan to fetch Nelly from the boy who'd been left in charge of caring for the passengers' chocobos. Even though Izlude chose to walk Nelly into town, and even after he'd traded the bulk of his loot for paper money while only retaining a few gold articles as well as some trinkets for Alma, thus allowing him to put his entire fortune on the back of his only mount, Nelly still staggered under the weight of her master's possessions. Though the sturdy animal was soon upright and plodding along determinedly, the knight blade knew Nelly well enough to spy the reproachful glare she'd sent in his direction. Deciding it would be best to relieve his chocobo of her burden as soon as possible, Izlude paid little heed to the ruined gates of his home city and made his way to the nearest counting house. For what felt like the thousandth time, Izlude could sense the gaze of everyone he passed swiveling in his direction. Rolling his eyes, and wondering if that would be how someone who'd likely been stared at like that most of his life would react, he continued onward, hoping the counting house in question had survived the war.

If it hadn't, he shuddered to contemplate what might ensue the next time he tried to climb into Nelly's saddle.

Quickly reviewing what he knew, Izlude remembered that, as a child, his parents would take him and Meliadoul with them to this particular counting house at least once a month. This would usually occur shortly after Vormav received his pay from the high confessor. He remembered that his father, who'd been a fastidious sort even before falling to Hashmalum, would unfailingly store a portion of his income at the counting house while keeping the rest at home in a vault, along with an assortment of family records and treasures. His mother, an art teacher whose salary was quite modest by comparison, would combine their incomes and manage the family's money. The knight blade could not help but smile at the irony that, even though his family's wealth was lost to him and that he'd had to build a new fortune from scratch, he had managed to amass a greater fortune in three days by eliminating the phantoms of Gollund than his family had in three generations.

Though the all too familiar counting house soon loomed ahead, the street leading to it was vastly different than he recalled. Apart from the gates having never been rebuilt, even though the rest of the city looked vibrant and bustling, many of the homes and businesses he'd recalled seeing along the way were either gone, replaced, or had changed hands. In some places, unfamiliar storefronts greeted him where veritable fixtures of his childhood once stood while, in others, familiar goods were gathered beneath familiar signs, but were peddled by unfamiliar faces. In a way, it was equal parts a relief to see the city now flourishing, where once it had nearly been torn asunder by violence, and yet it was jarring to see that, though the city yet stood tall and proud, it was not as he'd remembered.

Was it truly better now, as he'd often heard in voices soft and loud since awakening on the Fredericks' little farm? He supposed that question could wait another day because, for now, he had more immediate concerns to attend to.

Arriving at the counting house, he unbuckled Nelly's saddlebags, which were bulging with money, and told her to stay put until he returned. Sensing the chocobo was glad to be rid of her burden, and promptly sensing why, Izlude opened the door and heaved his loot over the threshold with a mighty grunt. Even though he was carrying his fortune of gil largely in paper money instead of the customary minted coin, Izlude could swear that his spine felt ready to crack under the load. On the way to Lesalia, he'd heard of a roundup of opium dealers whose supply had had a street value of some six million gil, and he was certain he was lugging around at least a comparable sum.

When he staggered his way to the teller, a young woman who reminded him more than a little of the innkeeper he'd met in Dorter, he became all too aware that he was being stared at yet again. Ordinarily, this would've caused him only a mild irritation, but since those gawking at him made no move to help him with his burden, he had to smother more than a few ill feelings. He was shaken from his incredulity, however, when the stone pulsed in his pocket and Izlude forcibly calmed himself. As he continued towards the teller, somewhat unnerved by his own temper, he wondered if he would ever be able to get used to sensing every eye on him. For that matter, would it make his guise more convincing if he let his hot-blooded side show at such scrutiny? Or, since Damien likely would have grown up being stared at in such a fashion, would it behoove Izlude to learn to treat it with humor, or ignore it completely? He had no answer when, at last, he heaved the saddlebag up to land in front of the still gawking teller and, as if sensing Izlude's displeasure, and that he hadn't been impressed that she hadn't sent someone to help him, the woman immediately snapped from her daze and apologized profusely.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir! Forgive me for staring!" she blubbered. "Can I help you?"

"I certainly hope so," Izlude replied, trying to keep a note of sternness from his voice, though the woman winced regardless. "Sorry, it's been a hard day. Anyhow, I am new to this town and need to open an account. My name is Damien Mitchell."

"I see. And how much would you like to deposit today?"

Instead of answering, and sensing the teller would never believe the amount without seeing it, the knight blade took a quick look around to make sure none of the others in the bank looked particularly threatening before he started emptying the contents of Nelly's saddlebags on the counter. Even though he kept one-tenth of the bills in his purse as pocket money, the stacks of bills and the small golden articles he placed before the teller still added up to an astounding amount of money. Before he was even half through, the woman's eyes popped and, as he finished, she removed and wiped her spectacles, as though half expecting the plethora of wealth to shrink once the lenses were clean.

"Sir, I've never seen so much money in my life!" she nearly blurted before seeing Izlude make a gesture for her to keep her voice down.

Taking the hint, the teller lowered her voice to a whisper "Are you that ghostbuster everyone here is talking about?"

Izlude was puzzled. "Whatever are you talking about, milady?"

As if in answer, the teller produced and handed over what looked to be a thick roll of vellum. Curious, Izlude unrolled it and, staring back at him was a header displaying the phrase The Lesalia Times in broad, stylized letters. Having seen scribes spend weeks of round-the-clock effort to produce a single volume of a single collection, the knight blade was bewildered to discover page after page after page of text.

"You've never seen a newspaper before?" the teller asked, though already seeming to sense the answer. "They did come about just after the war ended, so that's understandable."

Since there was no line of impatient depositors behind Izlude, he decided to use this opportunity to plug another of the many holes in his knowledge of postwar Ivalice. Much to his amazement, he learned that these 'newspapers' were printed, by the thousands, using a machine known as a printing press. Izlude had heard of such a device in the days immediately preceding King Omdolia's death. According to rumor, a Limberry machinist named Johannes had touted the device as able to do, in a matter of minutes, the work ten thousands scribes could be expected to produce in a week, and that such could allow books, once as expensive as fine jewelry, to be produced overnight and sold for a pittance. According to the teller, King Delita had made a point of investing in this innovation, seeking to promote a boom in literacy amongst the populace and, in the case of these newspapers, a freer flow of information regarding the current events of the kingdom, be they societal, economical, cultural, or glorified gossip.

Despite lingering concerns over what Delita's monopolizing the credit for Ivalice's revivification would mean later on, Izlude had to admit that he was impressed. Underhanded though his motives might be, Delita's decision to finance the development of a machine that could produce books and newspapers in the twinkling of an eye could change the course of countless Ivalician lives. In fact, after having already done just that by saving the Consortium, Izlude found himself wondering if Damien Mitchell might discover himself as possessing a philanthropic side, and deciding to change Ivalice for the better once again.

Well, if so, I'd say I've found my first investment, he mused.

With the teller's guidance, the knight blade navigated the sea of text and he nearly fell over when he saw an article about himself titled 'The Ghostbuster of Gollund'. Skimming it, he saw that it was an eyewitness account of his exorcism of the phantoms that haunted the Gollund mines. Could it be that, while he wasn't looking, there were others besides Gerde who'd witnessed his exorcism? If so, had anyone realized that banishing undead spirits was something that was normally performed by confessors of the Church of Glabados, and that most other warriors lacked the divine magics or weapons needed for such a task?

If so, he found himself wondering how he might give answer if someone from the church came around looking for an explanation.

Even if his burgeoning alias could hold up under their scrutiny, he knew that, as was the case with suspected heretics, confessors were not the sorts to be easily deterred. And, regardless, it was a delay he could not afford in his quest for Alma's hand.

As if his strange appearance wasn't drawing enough attention, word of his heroic deeds seem to travel fast, somehow becoming common knowledge during the week he had spent on the road from Gollund to Lesalia.

To top it all off, an illustration of his deeds - stamped rather than painted, but easily recognizable - was included in the article, accompanied by the caption 'He ain't afraid a no ghost!'

Why in blazes did the phrase 'who ya gonna call?' just flash through my head? Izlude silently pondered.

"I don't believe it," the knight blade muttered, trying not to betray his annoyance at the unwanted attention this would surely garner. "This is the first time I've heard of it."

"So, it was you who put the phantoms of Gollund to rest, wasn't it?" the teller asked, unable to hide her amazement or her admiration...or her plans to gossip about this to every coworker she could find. "Thanks to you, the miners have returned and the company you worked for can continue their work in peace."

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I would appreciate it even more if you kept quiet about this for now." Here, Izlude paused and, wondering if the stone might reinforce his words, added "I have business of great importance in this city, and I'd rather not draw any more attention to myself then I already have."

Perhaps the urgency in his tone shone through. Maybe it was respect for what he'd done in Gollund. Or, it was possible that the stone lent a weight to his words that bent the teller's thoughts in his favor. Whatever the reason, the teller nodded.

"Of course, sir. I understand it must be awkward and uncomfortable for you, since you don't seem used to such...notoriety. So, you wish to deposit all of this today?"

"Yes, please."

After making his deposit, Izlude filled out the appropriate parchments to open the account. Just before he was about to leave, the teller spoke up once more.

"Beg your pardon, sir. But, that article said you were a third generation Romandan immigrant. If I may ask, is it true Romandans eat shark?"

Déjà vu? Izlude asked himself, before hurriedly confirming it and leaving the counting house.

He quickly returned to claim his mount, who seemed happy to be relieved of her burden and secured Nelly's saddlebags before taking her by the reins to venture further into the city. After sitting on the caravan's wagon for such a long time, the knight blade preferred to walk, hoping to get the circulation in his legs going again. As he looked around at his home city, recalling once more that this was his first visit since he'd left for Murond to train as a Templar, Izlude suppressed his nostalgia long enough to take note of the new shops that had opened in his absence. This reminded him that he would be needing new clothes and accessories before he could attend the ball and vie for the hand of 'Duchess Seymour'. But before that, there was a place he wanted to visit for old time's sake.

His old home, situated in the wealthiest district of Ivalice's capital, the Tingel manor.

Izlude had not been back in the nearly ten years since his mother passed away, so he was more than a bit surprised when he managed to find his way back there with nary a wrong turn. When he arrived at the gates, he could not help the stinging in his eyes at the, largely, undamaged state of the manor.

This close to the castle, a confrontation here between Lesalia's warring populaces would've provoked a response from the castle guard...which might very well have turned into a massacre. Yet, though the sprawling manor loomed before him with almost cruel familiarity, it yet remained barred to him after his 'death'.

And, as he'd learned in hindsight, it had never truly been the same since his mother's death.

He was roused from his introspection, however, when he spotted a familiar face tending to the gardens outside the house- one of the Tingel family's long-time servants...and, indeed, the only one who yet held that distinction. Donavan Dawson, an elderly man in his sixties, was a man of humble origins, but one of the wisest Izlude had ever known. So much so, in fact, that even Vormav himself sought his advice from time to time.

At first, the knight blade was hesitant to call out to his father's old friend out of fear of being recognized. But, his curiosity over whether Meliadoul had returned to claim their family home or if it was now property of the crown, as was the Beoulves' former home in Igros, got the better of him.

"Excuse me, sir!" he called out, disliking the sudden lump in his throat.

The old man, whose hearing had not dulled with the passing of years, turned at the sound of Izlude's voice.

"Yes, and who might you be, sir?" he asked, his voice betraying only friendly interest.

"I am but a humble courier. I have been traveling for some weeks with a message for Sir Vormav Tingel. Yet, by the time I arrived, I'd heard of his disappearance. I understand this is his residence, and wondered if he or any of his children have returned."

Donavan spent a long moment staring at Izlude, his slightly blurry eyes squinting at the knight blade's face as though searching his features for something elusive...

...such as, perhaps, a curious resemblance to his late young master?

Izlude honestly was not sure whether to feel relief or regret when Donavan, apparently not finding what he sought, smothered a sad sigh.

"Oh, is that so?" he asked, his brisk friendliness back in place. "Well, unfortunately, Sir Vormav has not been found. And, his son, Sir Izlude, God rest his soul, was killed in the war. But, Dame Meliadoul has survived and had recently returned to claim their family home. I almost didn't recognize her, for she has grown up quite tall and beautiful. Unfortunately, she is not home at the moment. She said she'd return, but didn't say when."

Izlude had to struggle most valiantly to keep his relief from showing on his face. So his sister did survive the War of the Lions, as he had surmised from the visions the holy stone had shown him during his brief stay in the afterlife. What's more, she did return to claim their family home. Though he was disappointed at not being able to see his sister, he was nonetheless aware that he wouldn't know what to say to Meliadoul, even if she had been at home. And, of course, that was assuming that she would even recognize him with his new appearance or that she'd believe him if he told her he'd been revived by the holy stone.

Even so, he had wanted to know if she was well and how she was coping with his and their 'father's' deaths. Since they were children, the knight blade had idolized his elder sister and always believed her to be a better fighter and more competent commander than he, far more fit to lead the Templar alongside their father. And, though he'd never confronted her about it, Izlude also strongly suspected that Meliadoul had purposely held herself back so that he could take the position of the Templar's second-in-command.

More than once, he'd found himself wondering just under what circumstances she'd ended up joining Ramza's motley band. He still remembered, with horrifying clarity, how Ramza had impaled her with his sword - likely by accident or unthinking instinct, since he'd been trying to convince her that he had not been Izlude's killer at the time - and how both Tingels had been amazed when Ramza had used a rare elixir to not only snatch Meliadoul back from death but to mend her wounds in full.

The knight blade sometimes contemplated what might've happened if Meliadoul had pressed the attack, and such suppositions rarely ended well.

The knight blade was startled when Donavan suddenly chuckled.

"That's quite a bit of heavy thinking you're involved in," he teased, and Izlude couldn't help but blush. Donavan always had a knack for sensing other people's moods no matter how they tried to conceal them. "Well, if you seek to catch the young mistress' eye, you'd best know you've got some competition."

"Oh, certainly not!" Izlude waved aside, pointedly reminded that even wise men could misread a situation. "My heart is already given and...wait, what?"

Though Meliadoul had been known to have a flirtatious streak - at least, before Izlude's 'death' and, presumably, learning the truth about their father's subversion by the Lucavi - she'd rarely shown any true interest in the would-be suitors that always seemed to crop up in her wake. And, considering the cold and desolate state she'd been in during his vision, he'd doubted that would change any time soon.

Could he have been wrong? And, regardless, how could he find out without arousing suspicion?

Yet, much as had been the case in his youth, Donavan provided the answer.

"It has been much too quiet here of late," he said, as much to himself as his visitor. "And, lovely these flowers might be, they're not very good listeners. Might you stay a while, and hear an old man's story?"

Part of Izlude was leery at the prospect, for he had still more to do and the risk of the old gardener somehow recognizing him yet persisted. But, at the same time, Izlude also recalled how loyal Donavan had been to his family, even when matters in the Tingel household began their unhappy turn. What's more, he sensed that, with Meliadoul absent and the rest of the family dead or presumed so, the old gardener, indeed, had been quite lonely of late.

If all Izlude could give the loyal old gardener was a few minutes of being a good listener, he felt he owed Donavan that much.

"I believe I can make the time," the knight blade said, and hoped he wasn't wrong.

"Well, a young man, perhaps a year or so younger than Dame Meliadoul, had been popping in of late, asking for her," Donavan began. "Bit of an odd duck, but sharp-witted by the looks of him. He wore the garb of those machinists, who are always poking around those tunnels down in Goug, and had a belt crammed with tools about his middle. What really struck me was that he had a whole case of guns, like those the Romandans use, with him."

Here, Donavan paused and chuckled.

"He said he was delivering a shipment to a buyer here in Lesalia, and that he wanted to see if Dame Meliadoul was home while he was in the area. Claimed he met her during the war, but that he'd lost touch after. I was a bit leery at first, but that boyish blushing of his told me all I needed to know."

A machinist from Goug? And, one who'd known Meliadoul from the war?

Izlude promptly flashed back to the dossiers he'd read on the supposed accomplices of the 'heretic' Ramza, and soon came up with a name.

Mustadio Bunanza.

His dossier had described him as an ingenious machinist, well versed even in the lost technologies from the time of St. Ajora, as well as being a deadly marksman. However, his recollection of the parchment's dubious contents shed no light on why Mustadio would be lurking on Meliadoul's doorstep...let alone why he'd be blushing while asking about her.

"And, did he meet her?" he asked, his curiosity once more prevailing over his caution.

"Oh, young man!" Donavan boomed, laughing that hearty laugh that had always coaxed a smile from the Tingel children no matter their mood. "That is a mighty understatement!"

SSSSSS

Though the old gardener had known better than to crowd his young mistress, he wasn't about to let her out of his sight either.

And so, despite the veritable deluge of question waiting to burst free of his lips, Donavan had maintained a discreet distance as he watched Meliadoul wander the halls in silence.

Almost funereal silence.

Though whispers had reached Donavan's ears about the comings and goings of, quite possibly, the sole survivor of House Tingel, he'd heard nothing from his mistress' own mouth. Not one letter bearing her seal had reached him and, though he'd been profoundly relieved when she'd appeared on the manor's doorstep, alive and whole, she had yet to enlighten him as to what had happened to her.

Still, he could hazard a guess or two.

He had heard tell for some time that his young master, Sir Izlude, was dead, though it was only the bleak expression on Meliadoul's face that had, at last, undone his denial. And, though he was tempted to inquire as to the fate of Sir Vormav, something in the divine knight's slumped posture and dead eyes caused him to fear the worst.

Still silent, and yet her silence speaking volumes, Meliadoul had sauntered, trancelike, into the manor's training hall. Padded with thick cushions and dotted with training dummies and racked weapons of many descriptions, this room had been the site of many a duel meant to confer a martial education, from father to son, across the Tingel line's long history. Many a bout had been waged here, with steel swords as often as wooden, and innumerable hours of toil and sweat had seeped into the venerable woodwork.

Yet, since the Tingel family had departed, Vormav to helm the late High Confessor Marcel's campaign and the children to undergo their formal training as Templars, the training room had stood unused and forgotten, save by those who beat back the persistent tides of dust.

Now, however, a Tingel had returned at long last to draw steel in this forge which had honed and tempered her forefathers.

Though Donavan's own education with the sword was minute, it did not take him long to glean that her fighting style was much different than that of either Sir Vormav or what he'd remembered Izlude and Meliadoul using prior to their departure for formalized training. Rather than the stylish grace that characterized many female Templars, Meliadoul now fought with a penumbral ferocity that caused the old gardener to warily draw back a pace. The divine knight fought using aggressive lunges and overpowering slashes that would've cleaved a man in half, but clearly eschewed form and finesse in favor of overwhelming force.

This left Donavan perplexed, for surely the Templars would never have permitted such a haphazard fighting technique, but comprehension dawned when Meliadoul suddenly sagged to the floor, utterly spent, and yet her desolate expression still on her features.

She had been trying to weary herself to the bone, to leave her mind too fallow a field for inner demons to reap a harvest. Yet, though the display had made Donavan feel like he'd aged a year just watching, he was amazed when Meliadoul was soon on her feet again and once more took up her blade.

The old gardener, who'd remembered the young and vivacious Meliadoul of years past, felt his heart crash to the floor just as surely as Meliadoul herself did as she once more reached the limits of her incredible endurance. And yet, though her brow streamed and every breath was a wheezing gasp, the divine knight offered herself as little respite as her grief must've, for she was soon on her feet and hacking at the air once more.

The old gardener, concerned and more than a bit frightened by this manic display, suddenly found himself hoping that the young machinist who'd been lurking upon his mistress' doorstep might reappear. If he had known Meliadoul during the war, might he know how to get through to her? It seemed possible, if the machinist had known what had happened to turn the last Tingel from a swashbuckling vixen to this disconsolate creature he now beheld.

Hopefully, the machinist hadn't been scared off when Donavan threatened to start charging him rent if he kept visiting.

His fears were allayed, however, when he heard a knock at the door and, sure enough, an all too familiar young man stood at the threshold. The phrase 'she's here' had briefly brought the sort of grin to the machinist's face which one might expect of a child on Yuletide Morning; but, perhaps Donavan had let his anxiety show, for the machinist soon sobered and gestured for him to lead the way. Once the two men were within earshot of the training hall, the machinist raced ahead of the old gardener and darted inside. Rounding the corner a stretching second later, a wheezing Donavan peered inside to see Meliadoul once more slumped to the floor, but this time with the machinist having caught her partway through her fall and gently lowering her to the mat.

Donavan found one of his gray eyebrows arching at the scene. Though Meliadoul had caught the eye of a great many young men, most of which were a finer catch than the young machinist, nearly all either coveted her wealth or her beauty. Or both. What's more, most lost patience, as was the wont of young people, after two or three inquiries as to Dame Meliadoul's whereabouts. By contrast, this machinist had been popping up so often that Donavan had gyrated between whether to take him on as an assistant or to alert the local constabulary. What's more, there was no mistaking the alarm on his face at the sight of Meliadoul, nor the earnest concern behind each gesture as he drew her limp form against his own.

The old gardener was so deep in his musings over what this might mean that it took him a moment to realize that the machinist has been shouting at him for some time.

"Oh!" he blurted, embarrassed. "Forgive me, I was undone by-"

"Nevermind that," the machinist cut him off, his tone urgent. "It looks like she's passed out from exhaustion. Is there somewhere I can take her where she can rest?"

"The drawing room is nearby. Let me-"

Donavan soon found his eyebrows once more vanishing into his hairline when the machinist rose and, drawing Meliadoul up with him, draped one of her arms over his shoulder. He likely meant to walk her to the drawing room, though the first few steps soon illustrated that such a technique might not avail him since Meliadoul was the tallest of the pair. Given the machinist's emotive face, the old gardener had half expected a hint of embarrassment at this miscalculation, but he saw only desperate worry on the youth's face as he plodded along, awkwardly but determinedly, to the drawing room. Upon reaching it, he set Meliadoul onto one of the plush chairs that dotted the long deserted chamber and, as though only belatedly realizing the strain of his task, began to roll his shoulders and massage his back.

"Would some tea help?" Donavan asked, wondering if a soothing drink might provide some answers. "I can get the fire going in the hearth, if it pleases you."

"Yes, thank you," the machinist replied, gratefully settling onto another chair.

As the old gardener set the kettle to boil, he stole a glance over his shoulder at the two young people. Meliadoul hadn't stirred, though he suspected that might be for the best. Apart from the evidence of her manic session in the training hall, how her brow streamed and the veins in her neck bulged, even his aged eyes could discern the shadows pooling beneath her eyes. No less obvious, however, was the way the machinist made a poor show of waiting for his tea. Rather than specify what blend he wanted or how much sugar, he seemed to forget the frothy liquid almost immediately. Instead, he seemed to glance over at the slumbering divine knight with every other breath and, whenever she seemed to stir, he was half out of his chair before realizing it was only her emerald cloak rustling, at which point he'd dejectedly seat himself once more.

"You say you knew Dame Meliadoul during the war?" Donavan asked, struggling to keep his tone from betraying the depth of his curiosity as he poked at the burning logs with the fire iron.

The machinist, who'd been staring meditatively into the fire started at the old gardener's voice, then calmed himself and gave a sheepish grin.

"Sorry about that," he began. "And, yes. We met...not long after the Battle of Fort Besselat. I was fighting alongside Ra...Drake Seymour. You may have heard of him?"

The old gardener suspected that the fire iron falling free of his suddenly nerveless fingers was more confirmation than any words he might offer.

"Drake Seymour?" Donavan repeated, stunned. "The Drake Seymour? The future Duke of Lionel, cousin to His Majesty, King Delita, and a hero of Ivalice?"

It might've been the old gardener's imagination, but he could've sworn that a hint of smugness worked its way across the machinist's face.

"Don't tell him that, you'll embarrass him," he gasped out before a fit of laughter seized him.

"Still, it is an honor to meet one of Lord Seymour's esteemed company. And, it does my heart good to know that Dame Meliadoul was not alone in her time of..."

The old gardener couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence but, luckily, the machinist seemed to understand and spared him the trouble.

"So, you already know about Izlude, then?" he asked gravely.

"That's Sir Izlude," the old gardener corrected, though with more sadness than pride. "But, yes. And, though milady hasn't said so, I'm guessing Sir Vormav is gone too?

"I'm afraid so." Here, the machinist paused to once more gaze at Meliadoul, and Donavan could swear he saw the younger man's eyes mist slightly. "She found the...people responsible and gave them their due, but I don't think that was enough."

"I fear you may right." Donavan had to admit, though the machinist was young, even younger than Meliadoul if he had to guess, there was no mistaking the depth of emotion in his youthful eyes.

Meliadoul was more to him than simply a comrade-in-arms. Possibly, a great deal more.

"It seems I've misjudged your intent," the old gardener admitted, extending a hand. "I don't believe I ever got your name. I am Donavan Dawson, and I've been the gardener here since, oh, perhaps before Dame Meliadoul and Sir Izlude were born. And, you are?"

"Mustadio Bunanza," the machinist replied, shaking Donavan's hand. "It's good to meet you, but I wish it were under better circumstances."

"Don't we all?"

The two men spent some time bantering about, mostly with Donavan asking questions about Mustadio's involvement in the war. Though some of the answers he received sounded as though Mustadio was withholding details, the old gardener found himself impressed with the story of how the machinist had escaped the hired blades of the, since dissolved, Baert Trading Company, how he'd joined Lord Seymour in rescuing his father and, in gratitude once the rescue was accomplished, followed the future duke throughout the war, offering his gunnery skills to supplement Seymour's blade.

Before the old gardener could pose the question of just how he and Meliadoul knew each other, the divine knight stirred once more and, at long last, opened her eyes.

"Mustadio?" she asked groggily.

The machinist looked as though he'd been poised to let a grin split open his face, but he restrained himself when he saw that the divine knight wasn't nearly as enthusiastic.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, and Donavan felt his heart sink at how there was nary an echo of the vivaciousness of times past in her tone.

"I..." Mustadio began, and a blind man could see the redness emerging from his cheeks. "I was...just in the area, doing business and...well... Okay, I'll admit it. I was...worried about you."

The divine knight said nothing in reply, choosing only to stare into the dancing flames in the hearth. Mustadio, after taking a fortifying swig of tea (and promptly regretting his neglecting to ask for sugar) approached Meliadoul. When she gave no sign of objecting to his presence, he dragged one of the other chairs near hers, making a most dreadful racket as the legs squealed against the marble. Swallowing an embarrassed chuckle, he settled into the chair and, after a split-second of hesitation, he placed a hand on Meliadoul's shoulder. Once more, the old gardener was startled, for though he'd seen the divine knight put on a coy and flirtatious air, she was nonetheless a knight, born and bred. Anyone who touched her like that, without her wishing it so, risked pulling back a stump.

"Listen, Melia," he began, and the old gardener could swear that the nickname caused a flicker of annoyance to cross Meliadoul's once stony expression. "I can understand what you're going through."

Much to the old gardener's surprise, the hitherto silent Meliadoul scoffed at his words and, as she whirled to face him, her hood slid free of her head to expose her long coils of auburn hair. Normally, ever aware that long hair could allow an unscrupulous foe to drag her in close for a killing stroke, she kept hers in a tight bun. But, apparently, most of the hairpins must've been dislodged during her training, and the bun was coming apart...as was her expressionless mask.

"How can that be?" she more spat than asked. "You still have your father! You have no idea what it's like to have lost your family to that accursed war!"

"Oh, yes, I do! The whole reason I joined Drake was to save my father. He'd been abducted by Baert, and all I could do was take his...research and run for the hills. Yes, Drake agreed to help me rescue him, but I had no reason to believe he could pull it off. You think I didn't spend every waking moment hating that I had to run? Asking myself what I could've done differently? You think I wasn't always asking myself 'what if I get to him too late?' Are you telling me you didn't ask yourself why you hadn't been there? Or, that you didn't agonize over what if you'd done this, or what if you'd done that?"

That seemed to give Meliadoul pause - not an easy task if Donavan remembered correctly - and she settled back in her chair, looking almost chastened.

"I'm sorry," she said after a long pause. "I shouldn't have brought that up."

"Don't worry, I understand," Mustadio replied, and the old gardener could sense the weight of his words. "You've had a lot on your mind lately and, believe me, I've snapped at some of the others when I was wound up."

"It's so...empty here, with everyone gone. During the war, I was able to put it out of my mind because I had the...enemy to hunt down. After that, I had those monster sightings to follow-up on, but then... After that, there was nothing left but to face the truth. My family's gone, the Knights Templar are no more. I'm alone."

Once again, Mustadio surprised Donavan by standing, rounding Meliadoul's chair, and seizing her by both shoulders.

"You're not," he intoned firmly. "There are a lot of people who care about you. There's Drake and Agrias, Beowulf and Reis, Marak and Rafa, Rad, Alicia and Lavian, Raffe, Francis, Abel, Wynefreede, Myrdrede, Emery...heck, there's me too! Some of us are in Lesalia, others are in Lionel. But, after everything we've been through, we still keep in touch and watch out for each other. A lot of people were saddened when you left, and I'll bet they'll be overjoyed to have you back."

Meliadoul spent a long moment staring into the fire, as though expecting the answer to some unspoken enigma to emerge from the flames. Then, after what felt like hours, Donavan's jaw dropped when he saw a quirk at one corner of her mouth which might, one day, become a smile.

"It occurs to me that I've treated you rather shabbily, Mustadio," the divine knight admitted. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should've taken you up on your offer to come to Goug. It might've been-"

Whatever it might've been was left unspoken when her stomach suddenly roared with hunger.

"Melia, when was the last time you'd eaten?" Mustadio asked.

Meliadoul's brow furrowed, as though she struggled with the question before she said what might've been 'sometime yesterday'.

"I'll take care of that," the machinist declared, striding toward the kitchen while Meliadoul, showing a flicker of her old self for the first time since her return to the manor, scoffed playfully as she seated herself at the dining table.

"You mean you actually know how to cook something besides machine oil and gunpowder?" she asked, feigning astonishment that such a thing could be possible.

Jerking to a halt, but looking more amused than affronted, Mustadio whirled, leveled a finger in her direction and intoned "just watch me work!"

Donavan did just that, and it was not a pretty sight.

By the time Mustadio was done, the kitchen bore an uncanny, and unpleasant, resemblance to a machinist's workshop, with used pans stacked haphazardly and all encrusted with the remnants of Mustadio's machinations. More than a bit of water had wound up on the floor and, bafflingly, some stray bits of (probably not) edible detritus had ended up on the ceiling. And, as for the machinist's presentation of the 'meal'...in Donavan's opinion, the less said, the better.

Yet, to the stupefaction of both the divine knight and the old gardener, Mustadio had managed to turn out a surprisingly complex meal of roast chicken breast, filleted halibut with crushed bacon, mashed potatoes, a platter of steamed vegetables, and a chilled pitcher of water. No less flabbergasting, when Meliadoul dared to take her first bite, the meal began to disappear rapidly.

After picking the plates and bowls clean, the divine knight leaned back in her chair and contentedly patted her full belly.

"And to think," she began in a tone that was very nearly playful, pausing only to swipe a finger through the remnants of the mashed potatoes and lick them up, "I doubted you were good for anything besides leisurely pointing and shooting that little toy of yours."

This latest jibe, however, seemed to cut a little close to the bone, as Mustadio, who'd been gathering up the cutlery from the table suddenly dropped it in a cacophony of clattering metal.

"Oh, really?" he asked, this time sounding very nearly affronted, though Donavan could spy a curious gleam in the machinist's eyes that did not look much akin to anger. "And, I suppose that oversized butter knife of yours is a real weapon?"

"Of course. It takes years of skill and dedication to learn how to use the sword," Meliadoul replied as a ghost of a smile finally dawned on her features. "You learning to point and fire one of those peashooters? Probably took you a half hour."

Considering that Mustadio had one of those 'peashooters' strapped to his hip, as well as a whole case of others, Donavan suddenly found himself wondering if the machinist might...overreact to this teasing. The old gardener was relieved when, instead, Mustadio broke into a wide smile...but that relief quickly flew at his next words.

"Well, if it's so easy, let me pull some of these out of the case so you can show me how it's done."

"In here?" Meliadoul asked, her incredulity at the idea not entirely feigned. "No, let's take it to the training hall."

"Fine by me!"

Wringing his hands, Donavan followed at a discreet distance while the two younger people entered the training hall and Mustadio tried, unsuccessfully, to move a pair of training dummies with archery targets nailed to their torsos. Seeming to take this as a small victory, Meliadoul joining him in setting up the two dummies abreast and then withdrawing some twenty paces away. Mustadio then removed one of the guns from the case, along with an assortment of tools and a horn of black powder. He then handed his own gun to Meliadoul, saying it was already loaded, and offered her the first shot. Smirking, Meliadoul brought up the gun, aimed it at the dummy, and pulled the trigger...

...only for the gun to let out a peal of thunder, kick up wildly, and send her sprawling to the mat.

She landed, dazed by both the force and volume of the gun's report, but her vision cleared quickly enough to see Mustadio smirking down at her.

"Must've been a long half-hour," he quipped.

The divine knight, scowling, brought up the pistol and pulled the trigger again, but the gun gave only a dry click instead.

"Those guns can only hold one bullet at a time," Mustadio pointed out. "Complicates things a bit, doesn't it? Here, I'll show you how to load them."

Even if Meliadoul might be proven right about guns being easy to use, loading them turned out to be no small matter. Apart from simply getting the bullet into the gun's mouth, or muzzle, it had to be preceded by a measure of gunpowder and wrapped in either paper or cloth, rammed in using a small rod stored in a small cavity beneath the gun's barrel, and the whole thing had to fit tightly. After that, another measure of gunpowder needed to be added to a tiny bowl on its side, called the pan, and then snapped securely shut.

"Now, imagine having to do that, after every single shot in the middle of a battle?" Mustadio asked, his tone rife with vindication. "Not exactly the sort of thing that lends itself to the clumsy, or the panicky."

Meliadoul, her knight's pride refusing to let her admit defeat so easily, followed Mustadio's procedure for three of the guns, though another aspect which proved challenging was adding the proper measure of gunpowder. Twice, Mustadio had declared that she'd used too little and, once, that she'd used too much and the gun was as likely to explode as to actually fire. Eventually, however, the machinist pronounced her work as 'adequate' and challenged her to use each gun to take one shot at the target. Her first shot, which made the old gardener's ears ring, sent her sprawling once again. However, Mustadio helped her up and guided her through how to position her body, locking her elbow and planting her feet in order to reduce the, as he dubbed it, recoil of the gun. He also told her that, in combat, it often worked best to turn the shoulder of the shooting arm towards the enemy, thus offering a narrower target in the event of return fire.

Meliadoul fired again, and this time kept her feet...but the bullet has missed the dummy by a sizable margin.

After that, Mustadio walked her through a simple exercise to, first, find her dominant eye with which she would spy her target and, second, to use the notch above the muzzle, called the sight, to gauge where the bullet would travel after being fired. He then jokingly added that they were lucky that there was no wind in the training hall, otherwise they might miss their 'half hour deadline'. The divine knight, this time closing her non-dominant eye, fired once more and, to the surprise of all three, the small lead ball punched a neat hole in the outer ring of the target.

"Well," Meliadoul said, a hint of triumph in her voice, "not bad for ten minute's work."

Donavan considered mentioning that the pair had been at it for over an hour, but contradicting a woman who was carrying a weapon that could blow holes through solid wood did not strike him as a particularly bright idea. The old gardener did notice, however, that, although Mustadio appeared surprised, he did not seem perturbed by this turn of events. In fact, what looked like a cunning gleam had entered his eyes.

"You're surprising me, Melia," he admitted the nickname this time causing Meliadoul to roll her eyes. "How about we make this interesting? We each load three guns and take shots at a target. Whoever scores the most points wins."

"Wins what?" the divine knight asked, clearly intrigued.

"Winner names their reward. You in?"

"I hope you enjoyed yourself in the kitchen because I plan on you being my personal chef for the next three weeks."

Considering the havoc Mustadio had wrecked in the kitchen in just a few minutes, Donavan found himself contemplating whether it would be a betrayal of the family to hope that his mistress would lose. As it turned out, his fears were unfounded, for Meliadoul managed only two hits to the middle ring and one on the outer, while Mustadio scored three bull's-eyes with seeming ease...

...either that, or learning to use his weapon of choice so effectively had also taken a skill and dedication no less than that which Meliadoul had poured into her swordplay.

Regardless, the divine knight, looking somewhat chastened and more than a bit bedraggled, shook her head in awe. In so doing, she dislodged the last of her hairpins and her auburn tresses cascaded to below her waist in a waterfall of woven umber silk. Blowing out an aggravated breath at her disheveled appearance, not to mention her defeat, she ran her fingers through her hair to disentangle the chocolate mane, not noticing that Mustadio was gawking at her all the while.

The old gardener, by contrast, noticed everything.

And, what he saw so far was the single greatest fracas he had ever seen in his many years of service to the Tingel family. That disaster in the kitchen may have taken minutes to create, but it would require hours to clean up. His ears were still ringing from the gunplay and, he suspected, so were those of several generations of Tingels buried in the family tomb on the grounds. And, he didn't even want to think about how he'd get rid of the smell of the burnt gunpowder.

Yet, he also saw that his mistress was no longer the disconsolate creature who'd sauntered, trancelike, through the manor doors but a few short hours ago. Since the machinist had arrived, she'd been talking, smiling, even laughing. All it had taken to rouse her from her manic grief was a friend...who, perhaps, sought to be more.

Well, that and some mild property destruction the old gardener groused, but he decided that, if this strange young man could put his mistress's smile back where it belonged, then it was worth it.

"So, what will your prize be?" Meliadoul asked, almost sounding as though bracing herself for some manner of humiliation.

"Come with me to the ball," Mustadio blurted out, though his face faulted the moment the words left his lips. "I mean...er... you don't have to be my escort, or anything. But, you do have to be there. Drake and most of his band will be attending and I...they will be thrilled to see you there. Oh! And, you have to be well dressed. Wear your hair down, too. It looks...really great on you."

Mustadio continued to ramble on for a bit, doing an abysmal job of trying to sound like something, anything, besides a schoolboy who'd just caught the eye of the prettiest girl on campus. Meliadoul, for her part, looked as though watching this display made for an acceptable consolation prize.

"Well then, I'd best get ready," she intoned with a smile as she reached into one of her cloak's pockets, but her grin vanished as she drew back only a bit of lint.

Her expression shifting towards perplexity, and then towards alarm, she desperately began searching her other pockets, but whatever it was she sought prove elusive.

"What's wrong?" Mustadio asked alarmed, before something across the room caught his eye.

Whatever it was, Meliadoul spied it as well and, in a decidedly un-knightly show of panic, tried to reach it first. Mustadio, however, proved the quicker and scooped up what appeared to be a small tube of metal that, despite some rough handling, shone like gold. The machinist, oblivious to Meliadoul's embarrassment at his having seen it, stared at the small tube, wide-eyed.

"The tynar rouge," he blurted, stunned. "I gave this to you back in Dorter."

Donavan felt rather stunned himself. Though he'd never had either a lady to present with such a gift nor the funds to buy it, he was well aware that such a trifle was no paltry gift. Quite the opposite, in fact; it reportedly cost a small fortune.

If Mustadio had, indeed, given it to Meliadoul, then he clearly considered her to be more than just another comrade-in-arms.

For that matter, Meliadoul having kept it also suggested that the feeling might be mutual.

"I'm glad you kept it," Mustadio gushed, his boyish grin spreading from ear to ear as he gently placed the tube in Meliadoul's hand.

And, indeed, the machinist looked quite touched at such a gesture. His grin proving as uncontrollable as a faulty gun, he hastily, and incoherently, asked if the divine knight would wear the rouge when she went to the ball. It caught the old gardener's attention that, not only was the machinist not dubbing that as yet another of his spoils of victory, but he'd admitted that doing so would mean a lot to him.

The divine knight, one eyebrow arching, told him that they'd decide the matter with a rematch. Mustadio promptly reloaded the six guns and, just as he prepared to take his first shot, Donavan spotted a distinctly cunning gleam in Meliadoul's emerald orbs.

"So, I'm sure I'll find a gown easily enough," she remarked as Mustadio pulled back the tiny lever on his gun, "cocking the hammer" he'd called it. "So, what are you going to wear?"

Abruptly, the machinist's face faulted and, as he pulled the trigger, his suddenly slack shooting arm nearly snapped back against itself as the gun belched its fire and thunder. The old gardener didn't even have to look to see that the bullet had been well and truly off the mark.

"Okay, then," Mustadio intoned, trying to sound as though he wasn't thoroughly flummoxed by the question. "I guess I'll be doing some shopping once I sell these off. They'll still fetch a good price, even slightly used. So, shall we see if you can hit a bulls-eye this time?"

"You're on!" Meliadoul affirmed, taking aim and pulling the trigger.

And so the pair resumed their contest and, relieved though he was that his mistress seemed to be on the mend, Donavan found himself hoping that the local apothecary was well stocking up on migraine remedies.

Between the noise and Mustadio's other antics, putting his mistress' smile back in place seemed to carry a price.

SSSSSS

"Ah, to be young and...er...," Donavan began, suddenly at a loss for words for the first time in Izlude's memory. "Young and...trigger-happy?"

Izlude had almost missed the hitherto unheard-of lapse in Donavan's otherwise unflappable manner, for he had laughed himself nearly breathless. Yet, beneath the hilarity was a profound sense of relief. He had been deeply worried for Meliadoul, after seeing her both during his vision and skirmish in Bervenia, and many a time he had pined for some way to alert her as to his true identity. However, though he did not envy Donavan the task of cleaning up the after effects of Mustadio and Meliadoul's...

Date, I suppose?/ he wondered, somehow finding the answer to his liking.

Regardless, he knew very little about Mustadio, as he had long since discovered the Templars' information on him to be dubious at best. But, the vivid description of how the machinist had fumblingly worked to ingratiate himself to the divine knight, and how he had gotten through to Meliadoul in her time of grief, had impressed the knight blade.

And, though Izlude knew little of womanly trifles, he shared Donavan's opinion that tynar rouge wasn't the sort of gift one gives to someone who's 'just a friend'.

Still, though Izlude had no idea when, or even if, he might be able to reveal himself to Meliadoul and to let her know that someone else who cared for her still roamed the land of the living, it gladdened his heart to know that she was far from alone. Though he'd never met the man, he felt deeply grateful to Mustadio and hoped that he might have the chance to tell him that personally.

Maybe even as Izlude Tingel rather than Damien Mitchell.

"That is quite a story, sir!" the knight blade rasped out. "I can't even remember the last time I've laughed so hard."

"It's been quite a while for me too, young man," the old gardener agreed, a smile pulling tight his copious laugh lines. "Master Mustadio been back a few times since then, to visit Dame Meliadoul and to relay news of Drake and the rest of their band. He is an odd duck, and I could stand a bit less noise when he visits, but I am glad that that he came nonetheless. Oh, but I've prattled on too long already! If you wish, you could leave your message with me and I'll relay to her."

"I thank you for your kindness, sir, but this message is confidential," Izlude deflected. "However, I can return later. You did say she never mentioned when she'd return, but if you would be so kind as to tell me when Lady Tingel might be back, that would be helpful."

"Unfortunately, I am not sure of that myself, but I can tell her you came by. Why don't you return tomorrow? I think she will return by then."

"I will, thank you. And, have a good day, sir."

"You too, young man," the old gardener said with a smile before he went back to tending the flowers. "Oh, before you go, I have one question: is it true that Romandans eat shark?"

What is this, a running gag? Izlude asked himself, and the stone, as he hurriedly gave his, by now, well-rehearsed answer.

As Izlude prepared to leave, he could not help but turn around to take what, he suspected, would be his last look at his old house. It may have been his childhood home, and recalling the memories of those days tugged at his heartstrings, but he knew he could never again set foot in it, never again wander the stately halls which brimmed over with memories of his parents and sister. After all, in a sense, he was no longer Izlude Tingel. As far as the world knew, that man had perished in the horrible massacre at Riovanes Castle, just as Alma Beoulve was presumed to have perished as well.

As Izlude gazed up at the second story of his old house, he spotted the window to his parents' bedroom and his thoughts wended their way back to his childhood and early teens. He remembered his mother, Meredith Tingel, and how she'd fallen ill and died after nearly twenty years of marriage to his father. After her passing, Vormav, who treasured her above all else aside from the children she had blessed him with, was devastated. He would linger at her tomb, seemingly for days at a time, took only the scantest of meals, and rarely slept. After over a week spent in a veritable trance of grief, the previous high confessor took pity on him and offered him the Leo holy stone. Looking back, Izlude found himself once more wondering whether the high confessor's plot was separate from that of the Lucavi. While Marcel had been far too old and feeble to be an enticing target for demonic possession, it seemed doubtful he would knowingly give away such a stone as a token of solidarity to a grieving friend. Still, with Marcel, his coconspirators, and the known Lucavi hosts all dead, the knight blade supposed he had no way of knowing for certain. In any case, though he did not think much of it at the time, Izlude found himself looking back on those dark days and realizing that his father's erratic behavior after he had obtained the holy stone finally made sense.

After Vormav had received the Leo stone, he was sent on a brief mission by the high confessor. When he had returned, both Izlude and Meliadoul, though they did not voice their thoughts to anyone, not even each other, had noticed a change in their father. Once a patient and understanding man, even if a bit stern, Vormav became quicker to anger and less tolerant of even the most paltry short-comings from anyone. Later, this escalated into unpredictable and volatile episodes, with Vormav, who was no longer Vormav, often losing his temper at even the slightest provocation. Izlude could not help shuddering as he remembered how, just weeks after their mother's death, he'd witnessed his father strike a servant for the first time, a servant boy named Tristan who'd accidently spilled hot tea on the table while serving breakfast one morning. Izlude remembered the livid, almost feral look on his father's face, which he'd desperately tried to brush off as some product of his youthful imagination. That vain hope was quashed when Vormav struck the boy hard enough to knock him into a coma before getting up from the table and storming out of the dining room with nary a backward glance. The incident shocked Izlude and Meliadoul to the core and his sister, ever so compassionate, took it upon herself to carry Tristan to his room and tend to him until he regained consciousness three days later.

Apparently, their other servants got word of the incident and were shocked as well, for they had never seen their employer act in such a violent manner over such a petty mistake. Both siblings tried to reassure their staff that their father was still in mourning over their mother's death, that it was an incident which, though horrifying, would not happen again.

Oh, how wrong they were.

In the weeks and months that followed, Vormav's ever escalating violence saw one servant after another left bruised and bleeding for making even the most paltry mistake or causing him even the vaguest hint of displeasure. From breaking the ribs of the stable boy for failing to groom his chocobo perfectly, to throwing hot tea into the face of the chef for slightly over-salting his dinner, to pushing a maid down the stairs for failing to prepare his clothes in a timely manner, and so forth, life in the Tingel household, once nigh-idyllic, soon became an endless succession of nightmarish scenes which perverted that former joy.

And the worst part was that Vormav would later calm down and apologize, claiming that he had no recollection what he did or what had driven him over the edge, but those words offered little assurance that life in the manor would improve and soon, everyone in the Tingel household, including Izlude and Meliadoul themselves, lived in fear of their father. Every time he saw Vormav assault a servant, Izlude found himself fearing that he or Meliadoul could be next if they displeased their father in any way. The guards, whose only task was to watch the house, took to avoiding their employer by patrolling only the distant fringes of the expansive grounds and Izlude and Meliadoul, in a perverse irony, found themselves tending to their servants' injuries whenever Vormav's unpredictable temper boiled over. Out of fondness for the Tingel children, the staff tolerated Vormav's behavior for a time, but it finally reached a point where they could no longer live with him. Several of their servants handed in their resignations before leaving while others didn't even bother, vanishing in the middle of the night. Izlude and Meliadoul knew this because they would find their runaway servants' rooms empty of all their possessions the following morning.

As their staff grew smaller and smaller, the Tingel children grew more fearful that their father might turn his wrath on them once there were no more servants or guards he could vent his anger on. By the sixth month after Meredith's death, all their servants had left them, even the guards who'd wised up after seeing the exodus...not to mention the condition of those who'd left. The only exception was Donavan, the gardener, who worked mostly outside and rarely set foot inside the Tingel home, which gave him far less a chance of getting into a confrontation with Vormav. And, unlike the servants and guards, Donavan did not live with the family but had his own apartment in downtown Lesalia that he would return to after his shift was over. Of course, he knew what was going on inside the Tingel home, but tried not to think about it too much since he needed the pay from his employer. As for Izlude and Meliadoul, both of them found themselves having to tend to their own needs as well as the maintenance of their home once they were alone. In order to avoid their father, the siblings tried to be out of the house as much as possible, as well as be in bed by the time Vormav returned home from his duties. Fortunately for them, their father finally made the decision to send both of them off to Murond for training to become Templars as soon as Izlude, as well as Justin, had turned fourteen, the minimum age of admittance.

He'd left the dismal manor the moment he was fourteen and, until this very day, had never looked back.

In the four years that he and Meliadoul trained to be Templars, they saw their father sparingly. However, whenever they did, they were surprised and relieved to see that he seemed to have returned to his normal self and, for a time, they'd believed that the violent phase he went through after their mother's death had passed. At least, Izlude believed it until that fateful day he saw his father transform into a Lucavi before his very eyes. Of course, by then, it was too late. Vormav Tingel was no more, as Hashmalum had evicted the man's very soul and completely taken over his body.

Izlude felt his eyes misting at the painful memory. Not when he was killed by the Lucavi, but when he finally realized that the man standing before him was no longer his father but a demon with his face and form. And the worst part was that, deep down, he knew that something had not been right with Vormav since the day he'd returned from his journey after obtaining the holy stone, even if he wasn't sure what it was. He knew that something was not right with Vormav when his father ordered him to raid Orbonne Monastery, and yet Izlude had blindly obeyed him when he knew deep down that what they were doing was wrong. And, even though Meliadoul also loyally obeyed their father almost to the very end, Izlude believed that deep down, she too had her doubts. Unquestionably, the smothered horrors of these revelations, that she had unwittingly turned a blind eye to their father's subversion by the Lucavi, and the belief that such caused Izlude's 'death', had done much to explain Meliadoul's condition when she'd first returned to the manor. And, undoubtedly, knowing she could not share such a seemingly mad tale, even with the loyal Donavan, had made it even worse.

But, even though he, or they, had known, what could have been done?

The knight blade shook his head as he finally turned and left the Tingel manor. He knew that there was no point in thinking about those things now. What mattered was the present and, right now, he needed to get a room and hire a tailor to make him new clothes for the coming ball. The new Duchess of Lionel was expected to make her first appearance very soon. And, even if he had no way to alert them to his presence, he also hoped to clap eyes on Meliadoul and Mustadio as well. If nothing else, he wanted to know if his sister truly was in good hands.

Shaking himself back to attention, the knight blade resumed his journey. As children, Izlude and Meliadoul often accompanied their mother when she went to downtown Lesalia to shop, often for food and other essentials for their home. Meredith Tingel was not the sort of mistress to send her servants out on errands for every little trifle she so desired. A vibrant and energetic woman, she had loved being out and about the city with her children, especially on days when it was bright and sunny. Like Dorter, Lesalia had a large shopping district downtown where almost anything could be found. However, unlike the city of merchants, the prices of Ivalice's capital was significantly higher. But, with his share of the Moonsharks' loot, money was no longer an issue for the knight blade. If he wished, Izlude could afford to rent the finest rooms and dine at the most expensive restaurants, as well as commission a small army of the best tailors in all of Lesalia to design his clothing.

Those riches were not easily attained, but he would gladly hack his way through another army of phantoms in order to once again stand at his beloved's side.

As he passed by some restaurants in downtown Lesalia, the aroma of freshly baked bread and cooked meats reached Izlude's nostrils and he found his stomach growling. In his eagerness to resume his journey, he realized that he had not eaten since the night before. With his stomach refusing to be ignored any longer, he stopped by a café for some lunch, planning to eat and leave quickly before his appearance attracted too much curiosity.

After settling down at a table at the far end of the café and placing his order, Izlude was surprised when a man approached.

"Excuse me, sir," the man spoke up, his voice betraying his many years and hinting that he'd had a string of tiring days. "But, would you mind if I joined you? There seems to be no more empty tables left from what I could see."

"Of course," Izlude replied, though desperately hoping that this fellow did not even mention sharks. "Please make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you, kind sir."

After the man had seated, Izlude's eyes nearly popped out of his skull as recognized him as Claudio Chiapparini, the elderly artist who sold him Alma's portrait back in Dorter.

"Claudio! I didn't realize it was you! What brings you to Lesalia?"

"Why, Sir Damien! I didn't realize it was you either. How have you been? As for me, I'd been commissioned by King Delita to paint a portrait of his wife, the newly crowned Queen Ovelia."

"Really? From what I've seen, they chose the right man for the job. Please tell me, is the portrait completed?"

"Yes, just this morning. And, honestly, I feel I must've aged a year on the journey here and two more during the actual work. When I received the king's summons back in Dorter, I was hesitant to come. But, I knew it would not be wise to refuse, so I steeled my nerve and came anyway. When I arrived at the castle, I was fearful that I would be put through the same experience painting Queen Ovelia as I did her predecessor. I feared that if I painted her looking anything less than perfect, the new queen would have had me executed. You can imagine my surprise and relief when it became apparent that Queen Ovelia is nothing like Queen Ruvelia. She seemed much more patient and understanding, and best of all, she was more willing to smile for her portrait so I didn't have to use my imagination and hope for the best. I dare say it went as smoothly as my painting of Duchess Seymour, and that the royal couple shared your glowing appraisal of my work."

"I see…" Izlude said, smiling and lifting his glass in salute to the artist. "Well, that's a relief. I'll be looking forward to seeing Queen Ovelia's portrait when it goes up in the castle."

"Well, thank you! I appreciate your approval of my work. I take it you are happy with Duchess Seymour's portrait."

"Oh, I was thrilled!" Izlude answered, once more feeling anticipation well up within him. "In fact, I've come here to see the Duchess herself. Your painting captivated me so much that I just had to come see if she's just as beautiful in person."

"Trust me, Sir Damien, as proud as I am of my craft, I still doubt my portrait of the duchess could truly do her beauty justice."

"Well, I guess I'll have to wait and see, won't I?"

At that, the old artist laughed merrily. "Indeed you will! Well, good luck to you, Sir Damien," he said after he drained his coffee mug and prepared to leave. "I'm grateful that our paths have crossed again. Perhaps we will meet once more in the future?"

"Of course, I would love that," Izlude said with a smile. "Good luck to you too, Mr. Chiapparini."

SSSSSS

After he had finished his lunch and left the café, the knight blade made his way to the area of the shopping district which catered to those of more extravagant tastes. Upon arriving there, he probed his memory and, soon enough, recalled the location of what the Tingel family had regarded as the finest tailor in Lesalia. After all, he would be needing the finest clothes he could get before presenting himself to his beloved.

When Izlude arrived, his short-lived relief at finding the shop still in business turned into perplexity when he found the shop to be a bit quieter than he'd expected.

"Welcome, young man, how can I help you?"

Izlude turned to find himself face to face with a balding middle-aged man who, befitting his profession, had dexterous hands and was dressed in a manner which even a duke could be impressed with. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you. Are you the chief tailor here?"

"That I am," the balding man confirmed. "My name is Pat Mowett, and this is my shop. What can I do for you, sir?"

"I am in need of new clothing, actually. I plan to attend the ball to vie for the hand of the Duchess of Lionel."

"Ahh…well, the first night of the ball is this very evening. So, I must beg your forgiveness, but I fear it will not be possible to have your clothes ready by then. If I start now, however, they'll be ready tomorrow. The ball will be for at least three nights, or so I've heard, and, once I'm done with you, you'll put the 'fashionable' in fashionably late. I hope that will suffice?"

The knight blade was a bit disappointed to hear that, for he believed that the sooner he made himself known to Alma, the greater his chances of winning her hand. What's more, he had hoped he might also spy Meliadoul and see whether she was getting along whith Mustadio as well as Donavan seemed to believe. Still, he also knew that such fine clothes as he was likely to need took time to make, even for the best tailors and seamstresses. Grating though it might be so close to the end of his journey, he had no recourse save patience.

"I understand, sir," he admitted, much though he disliked it. "Would you be willing to start now? I know I'm asking on short-notice, but money is not an issue for me at all." Izlude lost no time proving his word as he reached into his pocket and handed the tailor a bill worth one-hundred gil. "This is just a down-payment, if you can have my new clothes ready by tomorrow."

At the sight of the high denomination bill, the tailor's eyes brightened. "Of course, sir! I can take your measurements right now and get started shortly. I believe I can have them ready by tomorrow, or the morning after at the latest. Besides, a strapping young man like yourself? I believe that one night is all you really need to catch the eye of the duchess!"

Izlude breathed a sigh of relief. During his brief tutelage in Ivalice's new economy, Aldrich had voice the slogan that 'money talks'. Apparently, it spoke most persuasively. "Thank you sir. Please, I'd like to get started as soon as possible."

SSSSSS

"So, tell me, good sir, who are you and from where do you hail? Judging from your hair and eyes, I sense you are not from around here," Pat said as he skillfully measured the length of Izlude's arms and the width of his chest for his new tabard, as well as the length of his back and legs for his new cape. Upon Izlude's request, Pat would later send the knight blade's measurements to the smith so that ceremonial armor could be crafted as well to complete his ensemble.

Though the Order of the Wyverns had surely been folded into the new Order of the Chimera by now, Izlude found himself thinking that wearing the crest which the real Damien Mitchell had worn in life might be a fitting gesture to man who he alone mourned.

Luckily, Izlude, who had been expecting this line of question and quickly fell back into his adopted persona, knew exactly how to answer, having spent the last few weeks honing his new identity as Damien Mitchell.

"My name is Damien Mitchell. Though I was born in Ivalice, Yardow to be exact, I am actually of Romandan descent."

"Interesting, have you ever been there?"

"Actually, no, I haven't. My grandparents immigrated to Ivalice during the 50 Years War, shortly before Romanda withdrew from the conflict and before Ivalice closed her borders. Though, with that war having ended, I may get a chance to visit when the borders open again for travel and trade. I'd heard some fascinating tales about the 'old country' when I was a boy, and some still pique my curiosity. But, right now, my interest is in the Duchess of Lionel."

"Trust me, son, you aren't the only one. Why, did you know that I've been making clothes for several young men such as yourself over the last few weeks, all seeking the hand of the duchess? That's actually why my shop was so quiet when you arrived, they'd all come and gone by then."

"Honestly, it doesn't surprise me. I knew there would be competition as soon as the word got out that she and her brother would be introduced to the Ivalice public by their cousin."

"Ahh, yes, King Delita seems eager to see his cousin married off quickly. Why, I have no idea. After all, she's still a young lady and has plenty of time to find the right man. I admit, I'm perplexed as to why King Delita and Lord Seymour should be in such a hurry."

Upon hearing that, Izlude had to admit that he was puzzled as well. He knew that Delita would introduce Ramza and Alma to the public as his cousins, and that it was a given for eligible bachelors to be in attendance. But, why would he, or Ramza, be in such a hurry to marry Alma off? He was about pose the question to the tailor but decided to hold his tongue, since it was doubtful the man knew any more than he did.

After his measurements were taken, Izlude paid Pat for his clothing, though politely reiterating that they must be done no later than two days from now. The tailor, in turn, reaffirmed his promise. At that point, Izlude made a point of leaving the shop before the dreaded question regarding Romandans and sharks could arise once more.

Now that his clothing and accessories had been taken care of, the next step in Izlude's mission was getting a room and rest for the night. If the ball at Lesalia Castle, and the lady of the hour, were as sought after as Pat had claimed, Izlude knew he would need to get what rest he could before he waded into that particular arena to vie for the hand of his beloved.

Now that he no longer had to worry about money, the knight blade figured that it wouldn't hurt for him to be a tad spendthrift for once. So, he sought out the most comfortable (and expensive) inn in Lesalia. He'd suspected he would only spend the next one to two nights at that especially decadent establishment, and one glance at their prices left no doubt in his mind on that count. Still, the privacy would give him a respite from the sensation of every pair of eyes in the city pulsing wide and alighting upon him, as well allowing him to better plan his next move without attracting unwanted attention. As he mulled over the ball, and what might happen there and afterward, Izlude took advantage of the room service and ordered a meal to be delivered to his room.

As he ate his meal and, later, laid in bed that night admiring Alma's portrait yet again, he once more felt the excitement welling up in him at the knowledge that the woman he loved was finally within his reach. This also served to remind the knight blade that, once he succeeded in winning Alma's hand, still more questions would boil forth. Izlude was pointedly reminded on one of these questions when he idly began studying one of the bills of new paper currency that he had been using since he came to town. Looking over the bills in his purse, Izlude once more saw that the larger bills had portraits of former Kings of Ivalice while the one gil bill, the most common one, had the portrait of the new king, Delita Hyral the First. While coin gil was still widely used, Izlude had the feeling that over time, paper currency would gain more popularity and, though he had no real way of knowing if Aldrich was right in saying that gil in the form of minted golden coins would remain in use to ensure that the new currency had value instead being 'just paper', Izlude suspected the days of belt pouches bulging with coin were numbered. Like as not, any gold minted in the future would ultimately be consigned to vaults and treasuries to, as Aldrich had oh-so-floridly put it, 'act as the unseen pillar which keeps the new economy from caving in on itself', while paper money would be used all over Ivalice due to its convenience, especially for merchants and travelers.

These musings also reminded Izlude, however, of one thing that he'd repeatedly shoved aside in favor of his ongoing quest for Alma's hand. He was now a very rich man and, aside from marrying Alma and giving her a happy life as he had promised, he had no idea where his future lay beyond that. When he'd first proposed to Alma, he'd expected he would continue acting as second-in-command of the Knights Templar, maybe even prove himself a worthy successor to his father and gain command of the order one day. But, so much had changed since then. The order was no more. His father's shell, subverted by demonkind, had been destroyed and, hopefully, his father's tortured spirit could now rest in peace. He and Alma had had to leave behind their names, and even their faces, and seek out new homes. And, though Izlude's newfound wealth would open many a door, he had no idea which door to choose or what might lay beyond.

Now that he was a major shareholder in the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium, might he pursue his investment and help the business to prosper and to provide valuable jobs and services to the still mending kingdom? Or, perhaps Damien Mitchell might discover himself as having a philanthropic side and, as Delita had done with Johannes's printing press, donate towards projects that might aid the long downtrodden of Ivalice to better their lives? Maybe he would take up the blade again as a knight of the newly formed Order of the Chimera. He simply did not know, for the possibilities were many and seemed daunting in the vastness of their potential.

And, even that did not encompass a question still greater. If the stone did not undo its alterations to his face and voice, or allow Alma to see past them and behold the features of the man she'd loved and thought dead, then how was he to alert her as to his true identity? For that matter, how could he do likewise with Meliadoul? He dearly wanted to know if she was in good hands with Mustadio, but she might not take 'Damien Mitchell's' curiosity as well as Donavan had. And, on top of all that, he shared Pat's perplexity over why Delita and Drake - or, rather, Ramza - were so anxious to marry Alma off so quickly.

Knowing he'd go mad contemplating all this at once, Izlude forcibly shook himself from his reverie and reaffirmed that, whenever and however these questions were answered, he still had the present to consider.

After all, if he failed at the ball, what would any of those questions matter?

Even after vanquishing the phantoms of Gollund and amassing a vast fortune, Izlude felt that his greatest challenge was yet to come:

Winning the heart and hand of Catherine Seymour, the new Duchess of Lionel.

A/N: Ok so now Izlude finally arrives in Lesalia to seek out Alma! Once again, I want to thank Falchion1984 for his help. The Mustadio and Meliadoul scene was entirely his idea so please, please let us know what you think of it!