Falchion1984: Again, I would like to thank Bluefelt, whose advice on this chapter proved valuable when the going got tough, and the scarcity of time to write made the process all the more frustrating. Thank you again for your help.
Chapter 15: Old Friends Reunite, part I
"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"
"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"
"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"
"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"
Whether one traveled amongst the rocky hills of Lionel, the windflats of Favoham, or the glittering streets of Lesalia, that was the question one was likely to hear many a time from many a person.
The sheer number of people who were curious about this particular subject was matched only by how his sudden appearance had inflamed curiosity regarding the hitherto unknown man who would soon be ruling Lionel. That he was the cousin of the newly crowned King Delita was a well-known fact, even though more than a few of the king's close advisers had no idea such a relative existed until quite recently. It was known he'd served with distinction as a mercenary, and not only because tales of his exploits had begun to spring up in such quantities, but because of the many exotic trophies he had won in his battles. The newly rebuilt Royal Museum in Lesalia had had to open an entire additional wing in order to house the many lost artifacts that had been sold or donated by the young duke. These included such fascinating pieces as the Statuette of Lilith, the Coin Blade, the Henya Mask, the Black Materia, the Orb of Minwu, and the Chocobo Cannon. Each and every such wonder of antiquity astonished all who wandered through the trove of this masterful adventurer and treasure hunter.
Given how much the museum reportedly paid for these relics of bygone eras, and that nearly a third of them had been donated, it could also be readily construed that Duke Seymour was likely a man of considerable wealth. That he'd reportedly been of low birth had, if anything, made his story all the more remarkable. As earth shattering as a peasant king was, a humble adventurer winning not only the title of duke but also amassing the wealth to go with it - and by earning it through his wits and sword arm rather than inheriting it, no less - had caused the flames of ambition to rise all the higher in those of low birth who now sought a better life than their forbearers had known. Even those of high birth were not immune. Those who had lost their fortunes to the war, and had kept themselves from sinking into despair by stubborn pride alone, had seen in Duke Seymour's achievements cause to hope that their newfound poverty might prove brief.
Much like King Delita himself, Duke Seymour soon became an object of admiration for Ivalicians of all descriptions. And, whether it was his exploits as an adventurer, the derring-do that had won him the wondrous artifacts that now overflowed the museum, how endearingly amusing was the clash between his mustache and his babyish face, the exotic crimson of his hair, or the halfhearted lamentations that he was already married, everyone was talking about him.
His sister, however, had also come up quite often as well.
Catherine Seymour was reportedly a woman of great beauty. Young, but well formed, and with crimson tresses woven into silken braids that framed her breasts and teased at her backside enough to make any man feel...attentive. What's more, she was known to possess a generosity of spirit that would have brought happy tears to the eye of anyone sympathetic to the needs of the poor.
Though speculation as to who bore the blame for the Lionel workhouses failing yet ran rampant, that bleak topic had been turned on its head when news got out that Duchess Seymour had reportedly taken on several dozen of the abandoned children, giving them jobs keeping up and guarding the castle. She had even arranged for them to be schooled in the event they chose to make their own futures elsewhere.
And, as if that hadn't been impressive enough, the first of these many wards had been a pair of onetime ragamuffins who'd been caught in the act of trying to rob her.
There were those who'd briefly suspected that Duchess Seymour was jeopardizing her newfound fortune by allowing street waifs to make their home in Lionel Castle at all, let alone in such numbers. Yet, these astonishments reached new heights when it became apparent that not only were the former ragamuffins not taking so much as a gil more than they'd earned, but that they had proven themselves trustworthy enough that Duke Seymour had even allowed the first of their number - the two who'd tried to rob his sister, no less - to accompany her as her personal attendants.
In a land long since jaded by the horrors that humans can inflict upon each other, sometimes without remorse and sometimes even without reason, more than one eye became moist at the notion of a woman who could not only see the good in her fellows but who could also draw it out, nurture it, and enable it to flourish in even the most unlikely souls.
Where could one find a better woman to mother one's children and oversee the household than a woman who might, some claimed, be considered for canonization by the Church of Glabados in the future?
When it was learned that there would soon be a succession of balls wherein Duchess Seymour would be introduced to the Ivalician public, including many an eligible bachelor, the fervor over the enigmatic red-haired siblings reached a nigh feverish pitch. From hither and yon, men of high station and those self-made men of humble birth who had risen to affluence, descended upon Lesalia in droves, sending the local inns, tailor's shops, and jewelers into a whirlwind of activity. Rooms were booked until the city seemed near to bursting with visitors, fine suits and pieces of fine jewelry were purchased by the dozen, and bank notes emblazoned with the new king's impressive profile changed hands four times for every heartbeat.
And, beat hearts did. Quite thunderously too.
Some hoped to claim the fair lady's hand before the days of celebration were done, others would've been elated if they could at least urge their suit in the hopes that she might see fit to wed at a later date, and many would've been content to simply know what this budding legend of a woman looked like.
In all the excitement, so many questions were being asked about how best to entice her to accept a gentleman's hand and what manner of man she would find acceptable. Others pondered what words and adornments might make them stand out from the hordes which would doubtless vie for her. Still, others pondered whether the lucky man would also inherit the duchess's two attendant former ragamuffins, as any attempt by Lesalia Castle's staff to remove them had been firmly rebuffed.
What went un-pondered, however, was a question so obvious that all failed to see it just as one could fail to see the forest for the trees.
Quite a tale had been told and retold of how alluring Duchess Seymour was. King Delita had injected nearly as much pomp and pageantry into the balls that would introduce his lovely cousin as he'd injected into his own coronation, and interest in the galas was inflamed all the more by the profusion of young boys holding aloft editions of the newly christened Lesalia Times and urging all within earshot to "read all about it". The implication that a husband was sought after had not been refuted nor even contested, but instead permitted to flourish and was subtly embellished. And, all were so swept up that they never considered the most fundamental of questions.
"Why?"
Why was King Delita lavishing such effort upon his cousin's debut on the social stage? Why was her tale so widespread that every man who ever sought a wife was descending upon Lesalia in a veritable avalanche of bachelors? Why was there such veiled urgency that Duchess Seymour marry when, at barely twenty winters, she could have any man she chose at any time?
But, as was aforementioned, these questions went un-pondered. Instead, a fevered refrain had well and truly seized everyone's mind.
"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"
"Who is Duchess Catherine Seymour?"
"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"
"Who is Duchess Catherine Seymour?"
Asked these questions were, again and again, until, after many an eternal day steeped in anticipation, the day arrived when answers might be found at long last.
SSSSSS
As was the case with seemingly everywhere else in Lesalia, the ballroom of Lesalia Castle roiled with the relentless flow, perusal, and exchange of the city's leading commodity.
Gossip.
Speculations still as fresh in the mind as they were days before yet made the rounds, with ever more fanciful conjectures being woven about the Duke and Duchess of Lionel. Bandied about were rumors and wild guesses about their origins, dispositions, and who was a likely contender for the latter's hand, all steadily growing more ridiculous and yet lapped up all the more eagerly in a city where gossip was imbibed more than fine wine. This particular gossip, however, was little more than a means to pass those final agonizing seconds before, at long last, the trumpeters blew out a quick succession of blaring notes that stilled every tongue. Turning, the various guests beheld a dark haired man in the vestments of high office standing at the top of a broad, carpeted staircase typically used to allow the royal family and their honored guests to make an entrance from a commanding position. Knowing what must be imminent, all drew in a breath.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Ivalician Court, as your humble chancellor, I, Olan Durai, am pleased and honored to present to all of you Her Grace, Lady Catherine Seymour, the Duchess of Lionel!"
The already expectant hush that had fallen over the elegantly decorated ballroom of Lesalia Castle became charged with expectation as Olan gave a formal bow to the young woman who emerged moments later. Once the young woman stood fully in view, eyes pulsed wide and lips were parted in strangled gasps of stupefaction and sighs of envy alike.
Tales and songs of Lady Catherine's beauty fell utterly short.
Lady Catherine descended the stairs with a swanlike grace, clad in an elegant scarlet dress with intricate gold designs befitting of a lady of her stature, rustling in gentle, crimson ripples as she seemingly glided down the stairs. The blood red hue of her dress found a ready compliment in the inviting tint of her rosy cheeks and her lush coils of red hair. A rarity in Ivalice, and a marvel to behold on so fair a lady, the long tresses were woven into a trio of elegant braids, one of which teased at the small of her back and the other two cascaded over either shoulder to frame her generous breasts.
Her sky blue eyes and high elegant cheekbones, not to mention her plump lips, had a seeming infinity of eyes agape, some belonging to men who were already all aflame with wishes to make this angel theirs, others belonging to women who were quietly incredulous at how she outshone them all, and still others who privately wondered if all the pomp and pageantry invested into this ball by King Delita had been sufficient.
Whether from amazement, desire, infatuation, or envy, all were immediately enchanted by the beautiful young woman who descended like a scarlet angel into their midst.
SSSSSS
Despite feeling like every pair of eyes in the world alighted upon her, Alma managed to remain calm.
Just how she managed it, she had no idea. But, she was certain it had been a near thing in any case as she tried to exude a confidence she did not feel with every step.
Even as a noblewoman, Alma was not used to being the object of so much attention. And, that phrasing seemed all the more poignant. Though it was no secret to Alma that she was quite attractive, and more than a few had told her so, she had never had such conveyed via the thunderous silence of an entire room full of people looking in her direction and keen to catch flies in their gaping jaws.
She'd known young women who would've enjoyed such attention, and even some who'd received it with great relish, but she could already tell that she was not one of them.
Alma had lived most of her early life at Igros Castle during the waning years of the Fifty Years War, when the time, money, food, guests, and inclination for such celebrations as this were all scarce and her most predominant company was her family's servants. After that, she'd lived in the isolation of a monastery surrounded by monks whose every breath was devoted to quiet lives of piety, chastity, and poverty in the service of the Father. In all that time, Alma had never garnered even a fraction of the attention that now seemed to loom all around her.
Especially not from such an audience as this.
Filling the ballroom, seemingly to the brim, was an enormous gathering of people of status. Some were surviving nobles, not all of which had backed "cousin" Delita's claim to the throne until after his victory was incontrovertible. Some of these were still men of wealth and some were rebuilding their fortunes and likely had their eye on "Lady Catherine's" dowry as much as they did on the lady herself. In addition, there was also a multitude of well-to-do common folk, some being powerful merchants, others bosses of the various guilds that had cropped up as Delita's decrees had transformed Ivalice's economy into one where petty grudges between those on high and tariffs predating Saint Ajora no longer hobbled production or sales of goods. This had allowed many of modest origins to chisel out handholds by which to climb their way above their births and attain the sort of wealth and prestige that, only a few short years beforehand, was the stuff of unobtainable dreams. The notion of a commoner, well-to-do or otherwise, marrying a noble had gone from unheard-of to novel, with a small but growing list of couples who'd flouted the former convention. Undoubtedly, there were many present who'd been eager to add their name to that particular list before seeing Lady Catherine, and the sight of her had ambitions and passions alike roaring in many a young man's breast. Still others amongst the throng were knights, squires, and other officers in the king's newly formed Order of the Chimera. There were even a few men of distinctly Ordalian and Romandan origins, as yet another of Delita's successes had been coaxing Ivalice's onetime enemies to attend the ball in the hopes that such would prove a first step towards reestablishing diplomatic ties. And, judging by the way their eyes were following her, Delita would soon have yet another feather in his cap and Alma several more candidates for her hand.
In short, all were young men who, wherever they'd come from, sought to raise their status in society by winning the hand of a beautiful and wealthy duchess.
True, many of them regarded her with amorous expressions, but she had learned much about the differences between love and infatuation.
And, the foremost was that, after having experienced the former, the latter was a poor substitute.
Letting her eyes roam the ballroom, the first thing the disguised duchess noticed was that the majority of the young men seeking her hand were dark-haired with only a handful of blondes and a few of the rare Ivalician redheads. Not that this came as much of a surprise, though. Before the ball, Ramza had made sure to remind Alma that there was a slim chance of her own child, whom he'd hoped to pass off as the child of whomever claimed her hand from amongst these young contenders, being born blonde. Reis had tried to explain the logic behind it, saying that such was unlikely since the father was a brunette, and the babies Reis had delivered showed a clear pattern when either parent sported dark tresses. As such, both her brother and the dragonkin believed that it was best for her to choose a dark-haired husband to avoid unbecoming rumors about the baby's paternity. If the child was born blonde, however, Ramza had suggested a contingency plan where she could still attribute it to her own mother, who was a natural blonde.
A contingency plan for a plan which was absurd enough to begin with! Alma mused uncharitably. Brother Ramza, how you survived the war, let alone slew a veritable pantheon of Lucavi demons, I'll never know.
If Alma had found the notion of choosing a husband, a man she would supposedly spend the rest of her life with, solely on the color of his hair or eyes, to be absurd in theory, she found it utterly ridiculous now that she was here and trying to make it happen. Granted, she would prefer to avoid answering unwanted inquiries as to the paternity of her child if he or she happen to bear no resemblance to the "father", her new husband, but she knew those were long odds.
Even if the child was born with dark tresses, like his or her "father", and shared Alma's blue eyes, or even if the child was blonde and Ramza's "contingency plan" actually worked, who could say that would be the end of the matter? Suppose her would-be husband nonetheless saw something else that had him second-guessing that he had sired the child? No less disconcerting, even if neither the child nor the supposed father knew or even suspected the truth, what if it came between them nonetheless?
Alma had long known that Dycedarg had never approved of Balbanes's second wife, and liked the children she'd birthed even less. Zalbag had made a sincere effort, roughhousing with her when she was younger, doting on her even as she became a woman, and jokingly asking if there were any young men in her life whom he needed to sit down with and have "the talk". But, though she was glad that Zalbag cared for her as much as he did, she also knew that their being born of two different women nonetheless created a distance between them that simply did not exist between her and Ramza. Between her and Zalbag had been a gauzy veil, concealing what there could be between them and revealing only enough to know that there was a disparity between that which was and that which could have been.
After Teta's death, and how Zalbag apparently considered it a "necessary sacrifice" to finally crush the Corpse Brigade, that veil had caught fire and warded the two half-siblings from each other. Her passion for the sanctity of life and his sense of uncompromising duty each became a conflagration that grew dangerous when one was allowed to stray too close to the other.
Though Zalbag had never been able to admit it to her directly, and though Ramza had been pointedly closemouthed about just how he'd died, he'd told Alma of Zalbag using his dying breath to urge Ramza to rescue her at any cost. That might very well have meant that he'd forgiven her. Perhaps that he'd done so long ago.
At times, Alma hated herself for never having forgiven him in turn.
Between herself and Dycedarg, by contrast, had been, at times, either a layer of ice that warded away intrusion with clouds of repulsing frigidness or a thunderhead that promised danger or even injury when the unwanted strayed too close.
And, that was before she'd found out that Dycedarg had broken his promise to rescue Teta, that he had been the architect of Ovelia's kidnapping, which would have become an assassination had his plans not been thwarted, and that he'd been amongst those who'd ignited the War of the Lions in a mad scheme for power.
What if the same happened between her child and her husband? Even if neither realized the truth, it would still be there. Would it create the sort of distance between them that had existed between her and Zalbag, even though both had tried to reach out to the other often and earnestly? Worse, would one or the other realize the truth in its entirety and resent the other, and perhaps her as well, and thus cause the family she'd sought to raise in Izlude's memory to become ensconced in ice fit to make the unlamented Dycedarg shiver in his grave?
And, of course, that was discounting the possibility that, if her "husband" learned the truth, he might allow it to escape into the streets of Lesalia, a place that reacted to scandal much the way kegs of gunpowder reacted to stray sparks.
That analogy - and, with it, the reminder of Teta's death - caused the mask of cordiality that Alma wore to shudder, but she narrowly managed to get it back in place before anyone noticed.
As she idly mingled about the ball, making light conversation with men who eyed her in a fashion too reminiscent of how men on the hunt eyed a twenty-seven point buck, she found herself entertaining the notion of abandoning this absurd plan and raising the baby herself.
Granted, neither Ramza nor Delita would be pleased to see all their efforts go to waste, and both would object strenuously. But, for the moment, Alma frankly didn't care. Whatever idle fantasies she'd had about balls and galas had well and truly soured when she'd sensed all these men, some of which looked barely older than Manon and others who must've been anywhere from ten to twenty years her senior, eyeing her like a cut of prime rib, not to mention all the women eying her enviously. And all of that was on top of how her being here in the first place was based on a plan which was, to put it charitably, dubious.
Alma knew that, even if she did meet a fine man to be the father of her child, and even if she could stomach lying to him and her baby all their lives, her husband would never replace the man whose bride she should have been.
If only Izlude were here.
She may have told Annie that she was here to make sure that she did what Izlude would have wanted if he'd known that their love would be cut so tragically short, and Annie had affirmed that Alma had to do what she had to for the happiness of her child and herself, but she was suddenly second-guessing whether playing along with this charade would accomplish that.
What good would it do to pick a husband only for him to realize the truth and their marriage, which was already founded on a lie, became all the more tainted? What good would it do to have a man to raise her baby if either he resented the child for being sired by another man or the child resented the man who stood in for his or her true father? Or both.
Alma might fumble for a time, but might she fare better raising her baby by herself?
It would be trying, but hardly impossible, especially since any of the men who'd live alongside her baby would likely prove a better influence than those assembled before her. Even Rad, for all his skirt chasing and lasciviousness, was possessed of a strong sense of loyalty that a knight could be impressed with. And, though Lesalian gossip was as ubiquitous and inevitable as birds flying in the sky, it was her business, not that of some gossiping city folk, how she raised her child.
However, unlike commoners whose days were usually consumed with work to put food on their table and keep a roof over their heads, the nobility had a tendency to mind anyone's business but their own. And, if anyone present sniffed out that she was already with child, whole towns would learn between heartbeats. Personally, Alma could care less if any of her fellow noblewomen had a child out of wedlock or who the father was. But, unfortunately, not all ladies of status shared her opinions. As Agrias herself had warned, social slips in the glittering heart of Ivalice would be told and retold for months on end...and there were few slips bigger than a young, unwed noblewoman being found to be with child.
Even when she was still a student attending an aristocratic school, Alma preferred spending time with Teta rather than gossiping about what she considered "stupid things" with her other female classmates. Still, she knew that as vitriolic and derisive as their words towards and about Teta had been, their treatment had been even worse towards those amongst their number who'd fallen pregnant when the occasional nightly dalliances behind the faculty's backs had gotten out of hand.
So, her choices boiled down to whether to gamble her child's happiness in a life of living a lie or in a life of ignominy for being born out of wedlock.
Both choices seemed so hideous, especially when it was only a tragic and cruel whimsy of fate that had placed such a choice before her in the first place.
If only Izlude were here.
Even though Alma tried to appear confident, she could sense that Queen Ovelia, who knew her very well, was eyeing her intently and could sense her unease as surely as if she'd shouted it aloud. The young Queen was also mingling amongst the guests, receiving compliments and chaste kisses upon the hand, seeing that her guests' needs were met, and making scintillating conversation, all while wearing a broad smile upon her face...
...a smile that was as painted as Alma's.
Ovelia might have learned well enough how to fool a roomful of strangers, though Alma didn't dare contemplate the how, where, or why. But, it was plain that something had the young queen deeply troubled. Apart from how she had greeted "Drake Seymour" and his entourage alone, and the desperation behind how she'd hugged them, there was also the telling distance she'd kept from her husband, the new King of Ivalice, Delita Hyral the First. Delita himself, who Alma had not seen or spoken to since the "Seymours" had been born, watched the festivities in a brooding silence and wore an expression eerily reminiscent of that he'd worn in the aftermath of Teta's abduction.
As though something precious beyond measure to him was poised to slip from his grasp forever...or, had done so already.
Ramza and Agrias had suspected that the slums still standing, even after they'd been emptied, the gates to Lesalia having never been rebuilt, and Delita's conspicuous absence during the arrival of the "Seymours" had meant something was wrong. And now, Alma feared that it might be worse than even her brother and sister-in-law had feared. What it might be, however, Alma had no idea nor time to ponder, as Chancellor Durai introduced the first suitor to "Duchess Catherine Seymour".
When Alma bothered to notice, she beheld a comely young man, likely one who'd earned his wealth rather than been born into it, judging by how he hastily tried to smooth out the rougher parts of his speech in midsentence. Still, the tale he'd drawled was one she might've found fascinating had she been able to give him more attention than she could presently muster. Apparently, this man had earned his fortune as one of an organization of blockade runners, who would use small barques to ply Ivalician waters by night, slipping into port and offloading food rations which would be sold to distressed peoples on both sides of the War of the Lions.
This man was amongst the senior members of the organization, and was so great an admirer of the late Balbanes Beoulve, who might've joined in their operation had he lived, that he'd insisted they call themselves "Balbanes' Cubs".
The irony hit Alma like a slap on the mouth.
Still, though the young suitor was not bad to look at, Alma could not bring herself to even feign interest in him even though she accepted his invitation to dance out of courtesy. The gifts he offered, though his pride in their lavishness was obvious, weren't anything she hadn't had before her family's wealth was lost to her or what Ramza himself didn't have, given his new wealth as the Duke of Lionel and a legendary discoverer of lost treasures. The Beoulve girl may have every material comfort and luxury anyone could ask for if she accepted this man's suit, but she still found it so hard to even smile at her young suitor for his kindness.
Wealthy and attractive he was, and brave and generous of spirit he must've been to smuggle food to people starving from the warring dukes' negligence when discovery by either would mean certain death.
Ramza would've been relieved beyond words if Alma decided she would have him.
Had Zalbag lived, he would've taken great joy in having "the talk" in order to jokingly try and intimidate this man before shaking his hand and calling him "brother".
Had her father lived, he would've been much honored by this man's choice of names for their band of blockade runners and honored all the more that there were people who still cared enough for what he'd stood for to hazard life and limb for it.
Yet, for all this man's merits, he was not Izlude.
None of them were.
And, the gaping chasm he'd left in her heart was so beyond any of their ability to fill, that Alma could not even bring herself to let them try.
SSSSSS
So enchanted were the ball's attendants by Alma that they approached her brother only sporadically. And, that suited Ramza just fine.
If any of them got too close, the frustrated duke might forgo the urge to tear out his own hair and tear theirs out instead.
As the evening wore on, Ramza watched with exasperation as his sister was introduced to and danced with one suitor after another, but took a shine to none of them. It didn't take an astrologer divining portents from the heavens to know that Alma clearly wasn't interested in any her suitors, even the ones who were equally as attractive as Izlude and, more to the point, looked like they might pass as the father of Alma's baby. Yet, though Ramza had been crossing his fingers and even his toes at every introduction Alma received, it looked as though she was struggling to even look any of the young men in the eye as they danced.
Her mind was obviously elsewhere, wandering through what-might-have-been.
Ramza ground his teeth together, trying not to scream at his sister's obstinacy as yet another suitor parted company with her, clearly nursing a bruised ego. He inwardly fumed, all too aware of how time was slipping away just as surely as Alma was allowing one promising suitor after another to slip through her fingers.
He could understand Alma's reticence, and could even sympathize since he shuddered to contemplate what he would've gone through had he lost Agrias or Rachel during the war, and had come close to doing both much too often. But, while Alma was lost in her grief, her time to do right by her child, before he or she was indelibly marked as a bastard, was vanishing like sand through a sieve. He glanced in Delita's direction, vainly hoping that the combined efforts of both men might dislodge the Beoulve girl from her stubbornness, but the king continued to lurk on his throne, his expression perfectly blank and barely seeming to notice how his efforts in so hastily arranging so extravagant a ball were going to waste.
As Ramza had discovered, Alma was not the only one who'd been lost in reveries of grief lately.
As if I didn't have enough to worry about as-is! he inwardly snarled.
On top of everything else, Ramza's investigation into the oddities he'd observed while entering Lesalia had yielded far more than he'd bargained for. After some twenty minutes of fruitless searching and inquiring amongst castle servants who knew as little as he did, he had chanced upon his longtime friend as he'd lurched, almost drunkenly, to a broad expanse of balcony near the roof of the castle, typically reserved for evenings spent looking up at the stars and nestling in the arms of loved ones. But, Delita wasn't out to admire the stars. The first hint was when he'd produced a bottle of fine wine from his cloak and drained it seemingly in a single gulp.
The second hint was when he'd tried to hurl himself toward the cobblestones far below.
Ramza had only barely managed to intercept Delita's fateful plunge, grabbing him by the belt and hoisting him back onto firmer ground. But his old friend struggled, with drunken clumsiness, but struggled nonetheless, to break free and finish what he'd started. Ramza had managed to restrain him more effectively and, once Delita saw that his egress from the mortal coil was barred, he'd began to sob brokenheartedly.
In a rare but welcome stroke of luck, the only other people aware of these developments were Agrias, Beowulf, and Reis, who'd raced to join him and, at his direction, acquired a sleeping draught to put the king under. Delita awoke the following day to find his old friend standing vigil over him and uncharacteristically resistant to placations and diversions.
After that, perhaps because of lingering drunkenness and speaking in a dry, scratchy voice, he had confessed all.
How he'd belatedly discovered how his machinations to isolate and then assassinate Goltana, and frame Orlandu for the deed, had caused Ovelia to fear him.
How he, in a moment of supremely cold calculation, had contemplated killing Ovelia so that she might not expose the tarnish that so discolored his golden legacy.
How he had taken the hard lesson deceit from Dycedarg - "learning from the best", he called it with mirthless humor - in order to beguile the Hokuten, the Nanten, and the Church alike into believing him an obedient servant when, in actuality, he was chivvying each and all towards a cliff. And, when the moment had come, when his sowing of murder and mistrust had left each and all isolated, he had run them through the back and tossed them over the edge.
How he had exploited Olan's sense of honor by leveraging the new and floundering High Confessor into recanting his predecessor's allegations against Orlandu, knowing that such a gesture, though it cost Delita nothing and had no bearing on any save the Thunder God's son, would bind Olan to the king's service with shackles colder and more immutable than any forged by man.
How he had unearthed magics unholy by any standard while in service of the church and used them to make a bondservant of the witch Balmafula, compelling her to feign her role of spying on Delita for the church when, in fact, the reverse was true, and tempered the steel in her chains with a curse that would strip her of her voice if she so much as uttered a word that went against Delita's wishes.
How he had professed to be helping the people of Ivalice to rebuild their lives when, in having left the shanty towns standing after he'd emptied and having left in ruins the city gates he might as well have smashed down himself, he was allowing some of the worst wounds of the war to linger, unhealed, while he gazed at each and all as though admiring the favorite trophies from amongst a perverse collection.
And how, in a starburst of clarity, everything he had done - not just to his enemies but to Ramza who he professed to call a friend, to Ovelia whom he professed to love, to the people of Ivalice whom he professed to be fighting for, and to the memory of Teta whose name he had invoked as his cause and justification for all the blood he had spilled through action and inaction alike - had all crashed down upon him at once with such a weight as though the very castle he now ruled had been pulled up from its foundations and dropped on top of it.
Once bound, gagged, and forgotten, his vengeful conscience and his copious demons were now a weight poised to crush Delita into pulp.
Behind that blank mask of disinterest that he now wore was a man who was slowly but surely losing his mind.
Ramza gnashed his teeth, hoping that the concoction Reis had forcibly fed Delita would arrest his downward spiral long enough for a more permanent solution to be found.
Yet, as horrifying as it was to find the once strong and vibrant man whom he'd called friend reduced to a shell so tormented by his own guilt that he sought to end it on the tip of a blade or in a bottle of poison, and how tragic it would be for Delita to succeed in killing himself when such might succeed in undoing Ivalice where the War of the Lions had failed, even all that wasn't the worst of it.
What if the still missing Pisces Stone crossed Delita's doorstep while he was in this state?
Before, Delita had been strong of body and constitution, keen of intellect and sharp of wits, and able to discern plots as easily as he could devise them. He could have, would have, and already had recognized soft spoken words meant to entice him into being the servant of another, and he'd burned with a passion to make sure such words would be deflected and those who spoke them broken. But now, with his mind consumed by guilt at what he'd done and grief that his callous machinations had turned his own wife against him, what more could the stone ask for in a host?
It could offer him power by which to redeem himself, or even to bend time to his will in a manner that would've prevented Teta's death and, with it, his slide into depravity, or any other false promises it took to lure a broken man into the clawed embrace of a Lucavi demon. And, if successful, then a Lucavi demon would occupy the throne, poised to succeed where Altima had failed.
A more lasting solution was needed, but what that might be eluded Ramza's overburdened mind.
Relying on Reis's concoctions would not avail them for long, as they were designed to combat the emotional fragility in certain women following childbirth. The dragonkin could not even be certain if they would work on a man. And, even if they did, taking them over long periods would more likely mean addiction than mending.
The irony of it all burned at the back of his throat. Many a time, Ramza had hoped that the Delita he had known - the Delita who yet had a moral compass, who would recoil at such villainy as gaining the trust of others only to stab them in the back once their usefulness to him had ended, and who could care for another without thought of personal gain - might still be behind that mask of Machiavellian calculation, waiting for the facade of the cruel schemer to crumble away.
And, crumble it did, leaving behind a quivering mass of a man paralyzed with self-recrimination in the place of the king he could be, and who Ivalice so badly needed.
Even though this also meant that the Delita who Ramza had known truly was still in there, that his old friend had not sold his conscience and his soul for the crown he now wore, it was a cold comfort when weighed against what might be lost if his compromised state was detected and, once again, would-be successors began to clash over the throne.
Yet, even that was not the end of it. There was still the matter of Meliadoul.
Ramza had been tickled pink when he'd received the letter from a giddy Mustadio, whose joyfully jumbled scrawl had proclaimed that he had convinced Meliadoul to attend the ball. Suspecting that the young Machinist saw the Divine Knight as far more than simply a friend and comrade-in-arms, Ramza had shared the story with those of his companions who yet lived under his roof and wrote back, expressing his delight and his anticipation of seeing them again.
Once his delight had cooled, however, Ramza realized that this meant that Meliadoul would be attending the very same balls which, hopefully, would see Alma with a prospective husband on her arm.
Though Alma and Meliadoul had barely exchanged a dozen words following the final victory over the High Seraph, the Divine Knight knew that the Beoulve girl had been Izlude's prisoner for a time. If she saw Alma, realized that she was pregnant, and gleaned by whom, Ramza shuddered to envision the consequences.
Oh, granted, Mustadio's account of Meliadoul's manic training and what she'd done to her training dummy had caused a vivid picture to form in his mind for the what the Divine Knight would do to him. But, the threat of physical harm to Ramza's person was well and truly dwarfed by the threat Meliadoul might pose to the secrecy of the duke's plan.
Granted, he had planned to tell Meliadoul that Alma carried her late brother's child. But, Meliadoul had departed the company before Alma even knew she was pregnant. And, though Ramza knew he'd have to tell her eventually, he had hoped it would be in a setting where he could calm her and secure her oath of secrecy.
Suppose she gleaned the truth and, in a fit of anger, exposed Alma's pregnancy in public?
Of all the times for Delita to rediscover his conscience and Mustadio to muster the stones to try and tell Meliadoul how he feels about her, it just had to be now! he screamed in his mind.
Had a Lucavi demon suddenly materialized in the room spoiling for a fight, Ramza might've considered it a relief.
SSSSSS
Mustache or no, Ramza had the face of a boy.
And, as his wife well knew, his face was so emotive that he might as well have taken a piece of charcoal and written his very thoughts upon his forehead.
Agrias, who stood beside Ramza with their daughter in her arms, quickly noticed her husband's unease. Fearing that somebody else might, and raise awkward questions about why Drake Seymour was alternately glowering at his sister and "cousin" as though he wanted to rip their heads off, she quickly prodded him with her elbow. Startled from his reverie, he turned in her direction to see the warning glance she fixed him with, and quickly painted on an expression of casual inattention to the pomp before him.
"Sorry about that," he said quietly. "It's just...it's so frustrating. Any day now, it'll be obvious that Alma is with child. I don't like the idea of having to marry her off to a stranger, but I...I know what happens to girls in her situation when they get found out. I just don't want that to happen to my baby sister, or my niece or nephew."
The holy knight couldn't help but give a smile. A frustrated smile, but a smile nonetheless. One of Ramza's most endearing traits was how much he cared for others. While there was no shortage of commanders who viewed their troops as simple tools, each valuable in their own way but all expendable when weighed against the mission, Ramza was the very opposite. He had, quite often, delayed his overall mission and hazarded his own life in order to save his friends, and sometimes even strangers in need.
Aside from how he'd charged headlong into the fray when chancing upon Mustadio being attacked in Zaland by the Baert Trading Company's hired blades, there had also been Ramza's "brilliant" idea to save Luso from being trampled by a herd of behemoths. There had also been his giving into the urge to hack his way through a band of goblins to rescue Boco, to chase after the seemingly deranged Cloud when he'd fled and left nary a clue as to where he'd gone, and to intervene when Olan had stumbled upon a den of thieves. And, on top of all that, had been his rash decision to aid Beowulf in returning Reis to her human form and then rescuing her from Bremondt, and to rout a band of Hokuten knights who'd deserted and turned to banditry.
None of these had any bearing on their mission, and each and all had cost time and risked lives they could ill afford to lose. Yet, Ramza had been adamant in each and every case regardless. Perhaps it was because he was a Beoulve, or maybe he was always trying to save lives to make up for Teta, the life he couldn't save.
Whatever the reason, he was a knight, born and bred. And saving lives was what he'd been born and bred for.
Agrias had always been more practical in such matters, having long since reconciled herself to the truth that, in war, people died, regardless of who deserved it and who didn't. Still, she was wise enough to know that Ramza wasn't going to come over to her line of thinking, and so she decided that, rather than change him, she would help him to grow.
His passion for saving lives wouldn't do anyone any good if he got himself killed doing it, so she taught him how to save lives and live to tell about it.
Still, though he was an attentive student, and learned quickly, there was nothing to be done for how his sword hand clenched and his eyes blazed when he saw someone, be it a friend or a loved one or even a stranger, in peril of their lives. And, watching as Alma tottered on the brink of ignominy, Agrias swore that Ramza hadn't twitched this much since he'd caught Agrias donning her armor just after cresting her eighth month of pregnancy.
Despite a snicker at the recollection of how terrified Ramza had looked when Agrias had pinned him against a tree with her ever expanding belly, she understood just why he'd been so frightened. It wasn't just that a blow to her stomach would kill their baby, nor that her ponderous waddling would never see her escape if the group was forced to retreat, but also the knowledge that someone - two someone's, no less - that he cared for deeply were imperiled and that there was nothing he could do about it...just like there had been nothing he could've done to save Teta.
But, donning her armor had been Agrias's decision, just as surely as which suitor Alma would marry, if any, was his little sister's decision. And, as much as Ramza might sweat and fret over it, he was agonizing over what he could not control.
All he could do was watch, wait, and have faith that it would turn out for the best.
Charging onto a battlefield and hazarding his own life was, at least for Ramza, much easier than sitting on his hands and trusting to providence.
"It's alright, Drake" she said gently, making sure to use his alias instead of his true name, should anyone happen to overhear them. "This is only the first night of the ball, and it's still early. Catherine still has two more nights and, with all the fine young men you and the king have picked out for her, I'm sure she's bound to find someone she likes."
Ramza nodded but said nothing as he gave his wife's arm a gentle squeeze, silently thanking her for her reassurance. Judging by the persistent furrow in his brow, he'd needed it...though what she'd offered might not have been enough. The holy knight had been about to offer more, possibly even outlining some thoughts that might help if Alma's pregnancy was exposed, when she felt Rachel squirm in her arms. The duke's gesture had apparently awakened the couple's young daughter and she started to get fussy, as if wanting to be fed. Rocking Rachel gently in an attempt to pacify her, Agrias gave an apologetic smile.
"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me for a bit, dear," she said. "It looks like our daughter is hungry and I don't want her to make a scene by crying."
Ramza smiled sadly, likely dreading the prospect of being alone to resume his torturous vigil, but he offered no argument. Instead, he painted on an admirable imitation of a smile as he gently stroked his young daughter's soft, wispy hair, so like her mother's. "I understand, Agrias. Do what you need to do; I'll be right here."
"Thank you, Drake," Agrias whispered before giving her husband a kiss on the cheek and making her way out of the ballroom. Since all eyes were on Duchess Seymour and the suitor she was currently dancing with, no one paid Agrias any mind as she silently wove through the crowd, gently rocking Rachel to keep her from bawling. Nearly all the young men in attendance, and even some not-so-young ones, were there to seek Alma's hand. The women at the ball were most likely their mothers, sisters, or attendants, for the sad sighs she'd heard behind her back on the way in had made it clear that everyone knew the Duke of Lionel was already taken.
The holy knight had never been one to gloat, but she couldn't help but feel a bit smug that she had such a man on her arm. A few years ago, she hadn't even known Ramza's name, let alone considered raising a family with him. But now, she couldn't even imagine life without her husband or her daughter.
As she approached one of the more discreet exits from the castle's ballroom, Agrias spied a familiar figure keeping vigil near the door with a female knight at either shoulder. Upon closer inspection, the holy knight finally realized, to her astonishment, that it was her former superior in the Lionsguard. She was an older, rather heavyset woman with curly, sandy-blonde hair streaked with gray. The woman did look like one who was past her prime in life, though she still had many years ahead, and her girth didn't exactly lend her the appearance of a knight.
But, if Agrias had spied the woman she thought she had, then she was well aware of how deceiving appearance could be. And, she'd come away with the bruises to prove it.
Besides, if Agrias had any doubts as to who she was, the eye-patch dispelled them.
"Commander Beatrix?" Agrias gasped.
At the sound of her name and rank, the older woman turned away from the knight she was talking to a moment prior and saw Agrias. Beatrix's remaining eye pulsed wide with, thankfully, friendly recognition and no small amount of relief at the sight of the very same subordinate who'd made some rather unflattering comments about her matronly figure nearly a decade ago.
Even though it had been years since they last saw each other, Beatrix had clearly recognized Agrias right away and, before the younger woman could tighten her hold on her infant daughter with one arm and salute with the other, the middle-aged commander excused herself from the knight she was talking to and enveloped her former subordinate in a tight, maternal embrace.
As the two women parted, the holy knight took in her former commander's appearance and, as certain details belatedly caught her eye, she found her delight at finding Beatrix alive becoming tinged with perplexity.
Judging by the ceremonial armor, as well as the sword by her side, Agrias could tell that her former superior was still on active duty. This was more than a bit odd since, though Agrias didn't doubt that Beatrix was still spry and capable, she was certainly well past the age where any other knight would've retired.
Besides, Beatrix had a husband and five children (at last count) to consider.
"Agrias, I'm so glad to see that you're safe! When I heard that you had vanished after Queen Ovelia was kidnapped, I feared the worst!" Beatrix gushed, not bothering to hide her profound relief.
"I'm sorry I worried you, commander," Agrias apologized. "So much has happened, I don't even know where to begin explaining it all to you."
"It's alright, dear. You owe me no explanation. After all, I am no longer your superior."
Agrias grinned. "You are wrong about that, Lady Beatrix; you will always be my superior. And, in more ways than one, I might add."
At first, the older woman did not know what Agrias meant until she looked down and saw the infant in her arms. Smiling in dawning comprehension and delight alike, Beatrix asked "May I?"
"Of course," Agrias said and handed her infant daughter over to her former superior without hesitation. "I hope you don't mind she's a bit fussy now; she might need to be fed soon."
"It's no trouble, dear," Beatrix said as she gently rocked the infant in her arms. Having sometimes suspected that Rachel was what Reis called a colicky baby, Agrias' jaw drop when she saw that the soothing gesture calmed the child, seemingly without effort. The holy knight, who'd had more than a few sleepless nights due to Rachel's crying, was amazed. Although Beatrix herself was a mother to five children, it must have been years, if not decades, since the older woman had handled such a young child now that her own sons and daughters were grown.
"I can't believe how easily you've made Rachel calm down," Agrias exclaimed. "Even her father and I have difficulty managing that sometimes."
Beatrix smiled. "I've had recent practice, actually; my eldest daughter is about your age and just had a child herself. Unless I miss my guess, her son is about the same age as your daughter."
Agrias' found her eyes widening at the revelation. "You have a grandson?" she asked in astonishment.
Beatrix laughed merrily. "Of course, I do! What did you expect since I'm an old woman now!"
"Surely you can't be that old if you are still on duty as commander of the Lionsguard."
As soon as Beatrix heard Agrias mention her position, the older woman frowned.
"About that, Agrias," Beatrix began, almost grimly, "The reason I remain on duty is because I have not yet found anyone suitable to replace me so I can retire. During the war, my sons served on the front lines. They're all whole and hale, but now they are needed in King Delita's new Order of the Chimera. My two younger daughters have chosen not to follow the path of a knight, however. And, it may be some time before my eldest daughter can take my place since she has a baby boy to take care of. My husband, Steiner, has already stepped down as head of the Touten Knights and writes me daily about my grandson. I long to join them."
"Oh…I'm sorry," Agrias apologized. But, Beatrix merely smiled and shook her head.
"There is no need. As long as there is still strength in my old bones, I shall continue to fulfill my duty to the crown to the best of my ability."
"I never doubted that you could. Not since that day."
"The day you likened me to a bipedal cow and got...trampled?" Beatrix finished, unable to keep a wry grin from her features, though her expression became earnest a heartbeat later. "Are you still bitter about it, Agrias? A lesson about never underestimating a foe is one we all need to learn, but I'm not so old as to forget how being trounced before an audience must've felt."
"Of course not, my lady," Agrias affirmed, somehow not surprised by how much she meant it. "In fact, I think you actually did me a favor; I learned something very important on that day." Further explanation was obviated when the holy knight gazed down at the drowsy face of her daughter.
"I'm glad," Beatrix said before changing the subject. "So how old is she?"
"A little over two months. Her father is the Duke of Lionel, the redhead with the mustache over there," Agrias answered as she subtly pointed to her husband.
Ramza remained much as Agrias had left him, standing alone on the far side of the ballroom watching his sister dance with one suitor after another. Though it was obvious to Agrias that Ramza was still worried and frustrated, he was hiding both behind a mask of casual disinterest.
Knowing the duke, that was hard work.
Beatrix laughed softly when she saw Ramza. "The mustache that looks like he stole it from the local theater's makeup drawer?"
The holy knight just couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing and, she swore, Rachel added her light giggles to the mirth.
"That's him," the holy knight gasped out. "He's younger than me but older than he looks. He grew that thing because he was so tired of everyone saying how young he looked. I don't think it's working just yet, though."
"I never would've figured you for a cradle snatcher," Beatrix joked in reply. "But, I am glad you've found someone. He's quite a catch, my dear. I take it that, once his sister marries, you will be the new Duchess of Lionel?"
Agrias frowned at the inquiry. "Actually," she began, somewhat hesitantly, "I was hoping I could rejoin the Lionsguard, if you would have me back."
"Ahh… I'm sorry, my dear but I'm afraid I must refuse," Beatrix said gently as she handed Rachel back to Agrias. "Need I tell you why?"
At first, the holy knight was confused but when she looked down and saw her daughter staring back up at her, she finally understood.
After Ramza had alerted her, Beowulf, and Reis to what Delita had attempted to do on the castle roof, not to mention him confessing to briefly entertaining the notion of killing Ovelia, Agrias had half a mind to drag Ovelia's so-called husband back to the roof and throw him off. Even after her blaze of rage had subsided to hot, simmering coals of anger, she was quite far from forgiving Delita for what he'd nearly done, and what would've happened had Ramza been but a second or two late. Still, though the holy knight was furious at Delita for nearly making Ovelia a widow by his latest acts of selfishness, she also knew that someone in the king's state of mind might very well try again.
He might even be so consumed with despairing derangement that he might try and take his professed loved one with him.
So, on an impulse, Agrias had considered vying for reinstatement in the Lionsguard. Even if Agrias had to talk herself into it, a post amongst the knights personally charged with the protection of the royal family would allow her to prevent any further attempts by Delita to cut short his own life.
Or Ovelia's, for that matter.
And, before Agrias had fallen in love with Ramza and gotten pregnant, she likely would've done just that long ago. Except, she had fallen in love with Ramza, gotten pregnant, and bore a beautiful baby girl.
And, though she owed Ovelia her friendship and loyalty, she owed far more to her family. And, so long as Rachel was too young to be without her mother for more than a few hours, theirs was the better claim.
So, like Ramza, she would have to spend some time on the sidelines, entrusting the fate of one she cared for like family to others.
And, to God.
Ramza, I think your instinct to charge headlong at everything makes a little more sense now, she mused sadly.
"No, Lady Beatrix. I understand perfectly," Agrias admitted, somewhat chastened.
"Now, dear, there's no need to look so downhearted," Beatrix said, almost remonstratively. "Believe me, there are worse things than spending time with one's family. We've dealt with quite a few of them."
"True, but there's another reason I wanted to return, actually," Agrias added, subtly craning her head in Delita's direction.
"Ah, so you noticed that too?" Beatrix whispered as she sensed her former subordinate's line of thought.
"Yes," Agrias confirmed, parsing her words carefully. "Drake and King Delita are more like brothers than cousins and, when we arrived, Drake sensed that His Majesty was not himself."
"Yes, I agree. Still, in case you hadn't noticed, there are quite a few here who can keep an eye on things. Don't you remember what else you learned way back when?"
"That, as knights, we must be able to place our faith in our fellows."
"If I remember right, it took you a bit to learn that lesson too. Still, it's not just us who will be keeping watch. Some old friends of you and your husband will also be on hand."
Agrias' perplexity must've shown, for Beatrix gave her the knowing look which the holy knight remembered all too well from years gone by.
"A few days ago, a group of former Hokuten was inducted into the Order of the Chimera," Beatrix went on. "Before...whatever's been bothering him came about, His Majesty said that they'd fought alongside him and your husband during the battle against the Corpse Brigade, as well as several battles in the War of the Lions."
Realization blossomed in the holy knight's mind as she understood who her former superior must be referring to. They could only be Raffe, Francis, Abel, Wynefreede, Mydrede, and Emery, who'd been Ramza and Delita's former classmates at the Hokuten academy in Gariland. The letter they'd sent to Ramza had said the six of them would try to join the Chimera Knights, so that they, along with Olan, would be able to detect and interdict any attempts by Delita to betray either Ramza or Ovelia.
Perhaps, if they were to be stationed in the castle, they might be willing to watch out for any further attempts by Delita to cut short his own life, or Ovelia's?
If so, then either she or Ramza should try to discreetly alert them to the situation, if that had not been done already. Still, though it galled Agrias to place Ovelia's well-being in the hands of others, even those she trusted, she knew what she had to do so nonetheless.
After all, as Beatrix had hinted earlier, however much Ovelia might need her, the baby in her arms needed her far more.
Again, Beatrix must've sensed what path Agrias' thoughts were tracing, for she laid a weathered hand on the holy knight's shoulder and smiled reassuringly.
"You understand, then?" she asked.
"Yes, I do," Agrias affirmed. "And, it's good that Drake's former classmates have joined the Chimeras. I've fought alongside them many times during the war, and I can vouch for the lot of them. Besides, even if their Majesties need me later, Rachel needs me now."
"Correct. For now, your first priority is your child. When she is a bit older and if you still feel like you want to return, I would gladly welcome you back."
"I'm glad. Thank you, my lady."
Beatrix smiled as she leaned over and gave her former subordinate a gentle, almost motherly kiss on her forehead. "I'm very happy for you, Agrias. Go to your husband, we can talk again later. Oh, and one last thing."
Withdrawing a pace or two, Beatrix stood at what knights and professional soldiers referred to as "parade rest", feet parallel and spaced shoulder length while she stood straighter than most women of her years could manage. She then clenched one hand into a fist, clapped it to her heart and intoned "By fang and claw".
It was a heavily abbreviated form of the creed of the Lionsguard, by which the well-honed claws of Ivalice's most stalwart knighthood defended the royal family with their very lives. In its much-shortened form, it was passed between their own as an acknowledgment of orders and a sign of respect from a superior to a subordinate or between peers.
In this case, it was also an affirmation that Beatrix's promise that Agrias would have her place in the Lionsguard back, if she sought it in the future, was not given falsely.
Unable to keep a grin from her features, and with the movements being so reflexive as to cause one to doubt that it had been years since she'd last performed them, Agrias returned the salute and replied: "By fang and claw".
Nestled in the curve of her other arm, Rachel gurgled happily, almost as though in approval, before finally dropping off to sleep.
"I daresay the little one will want to join the Lionsguard herself one day," Beatrix observed. "Well, I plan on being around to find out. Besides, few things that can make an old woman want to stay alive and kicking like her grandchildren smiling up at her."
"And, I hope you have many happy years with your family," Agrias replied, suddenly wondering if she might consent to giving Rachel a sibling or two in the future. "And, if ever you and your family visit Lionel, we'd be thrilled to have you as our guests."
"I look forward to holding you to that promise. And, while you're here, don't be a stranger. I'd like to get more of your story before you go home."
"Yes, we will definitely talk again. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Commander Beatrix."
"I will."
Now that her daughter was sleeping quietly and peacefully in her arms again, Agrias no longer needed to leave the ballroom. She knew that Ramza would need to know that his old classmates were on hand, in case Delita's wits were not righted by the time they had to return to Lionel; but, for now, she could not help smiling when she realized that Beatrix had done her yet another favor. The conversation with her former superior also made the holy knight finally remember what it was that she and Ramza had argued about a few months ago that made her feel like strangling him. He had not-so-subtly suggested that she stay off the battlefield because her pregnancy might hinder her ability to fight, though it was more likely he was worried about losing their unborn child. Granted, he had made such characteristic blunders as saying she'd be too slow and her swollen belly presented too easy a target, and Agrias wouldn't have needed to be pregnant to fly into a spitting rage at the seeming intimation that she was too fat to fight. Still, though Ramza had likely seemed quite emasculated arguing with his pregnant lover, and looking well and truly terrified of her while doing so, Agrias was glad that she had ultimately chosen to listen.
One blow to her belly would've been enough to see them burying their baby instead of rocking her to sleep.
And, if she had been pregnant while still in the Lionsguard, Agrias knew it was likely Beatrix would have ordered to stay off the battlefield for that very reason.
After leaving Beatrix to resume her conversation with her fellow guards, Agrias returned to where Ramza stood watching Alma. Although he tried to hide it behind that porous mask of calm, the holy knight could tell that her husband was still worried and increasingly frustrated at his sister's unwillingness to give any of the men seeking her hand even a chance at getting to know her. Were it not for her pregnancy, Agrias knew that Ramza would not have minded giving Alma as much time as she needed to accept Izlude's death and move on. But, unfortunately, time was a luxury she simply did not have, especially since it would not be long before her pregnancy became obvious.
And, Ramza was not the only one concerned. So were Delita, at least in his more lucid moments, as well as Ovelia, Agrias, and the rest of their friends.
And then there was also the matter of revealing the true paternity of Alma's baby to Meliadoul as well.
With everything else that had happened, she couldn't blame Ramza for fearing that Meliadoul might overreact disastrously if she were to learn of Alma's pregnancy while the balls were still underway. However, though Meliadoul had a quick temper, Agrias knew her to be have been a loving sister to the late Izlude and she would not do so great a disservice as brand his child a bastard while in the heat of anger.
Granted, Ramza would likely come away from such an explanation with sore ears and some bruises, but no more.
After informing Ramza about their likely "reinforcements", which caused the duke to literally sag with relief, the rest of the evening went by uneventfully. When it was over and everyone had retired for the evening, however, Ramza seemed more than a bit displeased that the first ball had apparently achieved very little. Despite Agrias' attempts to mollify him, he decided to pay his sister a visit after seeing his wife and daughter to bed. Grumbling something about Beoulve stubbornness, the holy knight resigned herself to preparing many an I-told-you-so for when Ramza inevitably returned after saying all the wrong things first.
Well, if he doesn't call her fat, I can picture him making it back out in one piece, she decided before her eyelids fluttered shut.
Most of the suitors for Alma's hand had boarded at the inns in Central Lesalia, so that they could attend the next two nights of the ball at their convenience. It wasn't unusual for guests to show up at various times of the night. In fact, showing up "fashionably late" was habitual amongst those in the highest ranks of Ivalician nobility.
Perhaps one would materialize at the eleventh hour, arriving just in time and when all seemed darkest.
After all, it had happened for Agrias at Bariaus Valley. Perhaps it would happen for Alma as well.