A/N: Here's the moment you've all been waiting for! After months of searching, Izlude finally reunites with his beloved Alma! Since this chapter turned out longer than I thought, I've decided to split it in two. Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible. Enjoy and please review!
Chapter 18: To Win his Lady Fair, Part I
After Thomas had left, a very nervous Izlude gave his attire one last inspection before drawing in what was supposed to be a calming breath and then departing for the castle. Since he had quite a bit of money and valuables in his room, the knight blade also had to make sure the door was securely locked, as well as leaving strict instructions at the front desk that none of the staff, who also held keys, be allowed in until his return. Though his request likely raised an eyebrow or two, the addition of a fifty gil bill on top of his earlier payment for the room convinced the staff to leave it at that. The knight blade also made sure the holy stone was secure in his pocket. Though taking it into the castle was a risk - for Ramza and his companions might very well think him another Weigraf or Vormav if they realized he had it and act accordingly - there was no way he would leave it unattended, no matter what.
He still had no idea of the stone's motives for helping him at all, let alone this much, but he also knew that the stone was too dangerous to risk it falling into the wrong hands.
As it turned out, upon reaching the gates of Lesalia Castle, Izlude found that Thomas' words rang true. Although he arrived an hour and a half before the ball was scheduled to begin, he was barely through the doors when he heard a commotion behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the castle guardsmen flanking the door had crossed their halberds, barring the way of any who'd sought entrance. Judging by the protestations he heard, there were quite a few. And most were quite bellicose at this misfortune.
Apparently, Izlude was the final suitor to reach the castle before King Delita gave the order to close the doors.
Even before feeling the subtle vibration in his pocket, the knight blade already knew that happenstance had nothing to do with his fortuitous timing.
Between the near miss, and just how near he was to the culmination of his long journey, the blood pounding in his ears soon drowned out the angry clamoring behind him as he signed his name into the guest log and continued into the castle.
Although he had been to Lesalia Castle a few times in his childhood, Izlude found that the new king had lost no time stamping it with his newfound authority. Along the hallways and on the four walls of the elegant ballroom, the crest of the newly founded Order of the Chimera rippled with seeming life at even the softest current of moving air. Since the ball was likely to last several hours into the night, there were also tables set up where guests could partake of food and refreshments at their leisure.
The revitalization of Ivalice's farmlands was very much in evidence, as the tables were crammed with confections in such variety and abundance as had not been seen since before the War of the Lions, if not longer. Amidst the meats, fruits, fish, stews, pastries, chilled milk, wine, and other mouth watering dishes were many which Izlude had never seen before. When he spied the small identifying tags, his astonished gaze told him that some of the strange dishes were Romandan, and a few were even Ordallian.
Having grown up in a time where both nations had sought Ivalice's destruction, that had taken Izlude by surprise. And, as his eyes roamed the expansive ballroom, the knight blade was shocked when he saw a handful of people who had the same jet-black hair and steel grey eyes he presently sported. What's more, judging by the mingling of red and white, as well as the homespun belts and such embroidered images as that of a snarling polar bear or a sleek snow leopard, Izlude realized that he beheld an entourage of native Romandans. And, as if that wasn't enough, the sight of several figures with almond shaped eyes and wearing elegant long sleeved robes secured with colorful sashes told the disbelieving knight blade that Ordalians were also in attendance.
Izlude had not expected to see any foreigners at the ball, especially ones who had formerly been Ivalice's enemies. And yet, when he thought about it, he realized that it did make sense that such a brilliant achievement as fostering friendly diplomatic relations with Ivalice's neighboring countries for the first time in decades by inviting their representatives to the ball would fit quite nicely into the newly crowned king's burgeoning legacy of triumphs and bettering the lives of all Ivalicians where his predecessors had either failed miserably or hadn't bothered to try at all. And, despite the gamble Delita was surely engaged in, as a great deal of Ivalice's poverty following the Fifty Years War was attributable to the reparations she had to pay under the terms of the treaty which ended the conflict, the sight of a richly dressed Ordalian nobleman bowing respectfully to the young king seemed to indelibly mark this as yet another feather in Delita's cap.
The knight blade, not for the first time, found himself wondering just what lay at the end of all this. After all, by reuniting all the knightly orders under the new, shared banner of the Chimera, reshaping Ivalice's economy to ensure a freer flow of goods and services, and awing the common folk with his rags to riches story, Delita now had a near, if not total monopoly on both the adoration of Ivalice's men and women-at-arms, merchants, traders, farmers, and common folk, as well as the credit for ending the War of the Lions and setting Ivalice on the course towards a better future.
What Delita might do with all this power he had amassed? Izlude could not say, though the question caused more than a hint of dread to sink into the back of his mind. Shaking it off for the moment, he decided to concentrate on what he had come here for, hoping that he would not be competing with these foreigners for Alma's hand as well. Though Delita's ambitions would likely benefit from his orchestrating such a symbolic match, Izlude was rather hoping that the newly crowned king would let that particular triumph occur latter, especially since it was tradition for a noblewoman to live under her husband's roof after they wed, even if that meant living in another country.
Since Alma was apparently not yet ready to make her appearance, Izlude decided to pass the time by perusing the refreshments. As his gaze roamed the tables, studying culinary delights familiar and exotic, the knight blade nearly did a double-take when he spotted Hakarl, the "dreaded" Romandan shark dish which people had been incessantly asking him about. Izlude recalled the book he'd acquired going on at considerable length about how time-consuming it was to prepare the dish, as well as the exploits of the various seaborne hunters who caught the sharks in the first place, at times risking life and limb to do so.
Since he was not really a native Romandan, whatever it was that made the dish so appealing yet eluded Izlude. Still, he was trying to pass himself off as a man of Romandan descent and it was likely he would run into still more people who might question him about the exotic dish, especially since it was here and ripe for the tasting. What's more, being asked about it so often had stirred the knight blade's curiosity, so he decided that now was as good time as any to taste it for himself. At the very least, he could give an accurate description and make his alleged Romadan heritage more convincing.
As soon as he picked up and placed a piece of shark inside his mouth, Izlude almost wished he hadn't. Although he normally tried to keep an open mind with regards to food, the knight blade found that the Hakarl had a taste reminiscent of rubber.
How can anyone eat this?! he inwardly fumed. It's awful!
If it wouldn't have looked so improper, not to mention potentially offensive to both his royal hosts and their Romandan guests, Izlude might have spit out the shark where he stood. Not wanting to draw unwanted attention to himself, the knight blade forced himself to swallow the rubbery piece of fish and then requested a glass of water to wash it down with. And a piece of mint to get rid of the smell, for he didn't want to have come all this way only to scare Alma away with bad breath.
"It's an acquired taste," a heavily accented male voice spoke up from behind him, with obvious amusement in his tone.
Years of knightly training, not to mention his current surroundings, were more than enough to quash any thought of answering such mockery with his fist, but Izlude decided he might as well face whoever had spoken, just in case the mind-numbing revulsion caused by the Hakarl eased enough for him to devise a retort. That, however, was forgotten when he beheld the speaker and saw that he was staring at one of the native Romandan guests, likely a nobleman - or a boyar, as they were called in their native soil - judging by his rich clothing.
That had been more than enough to have Izlude inwardly terrified, for a native Romandan would likely recognize "Damien's" origins and ask after them at greater length than an Ivalician. But, Izlude felt his heart start climbing up his throat when the boyar's expression was overtaken by an enormous grin and he belted out "Rodich!"
That was the Romandan word for "kinsman".
The knight blade had assumed that Damien Mitchell had no family since the line where they would be listed on his dog tag had been blank, but what if that wasn't the case? What if the real Damien had relatives back in Romanda? What if one such relative was the man who presently stood before him?
And, worse, what if this man had known "Damien" well enough to spot the inconsistencies in Izlude's portrayal?
The boyar seemed quite oblivious to Izlude's inner distress but calmed it by holding up a copy of the Lesalia Times and displaying an all too familiar article.
Thank heavens, this hadn't been some relative of Damien Mitchell, but merely an admiring "kinsman". In hindsight, that made sense, as the book Izlude had read did state that Romandans, as a rule, had a degree of wariness towards non-Romandans and, when they travelled to other lands or immigrated, they much preferred the company of their countrymen where they could find it. Though this made diplomacy with them a chancy prospect, it also meant that Romandan communities tended to be tightly knit, and it was not uncommon for "neighbors" and "brothers" to see a distinction without a difference. He quickly recalled other entries about the general temperament of Romandans and how, within reason, they could find great humor in small sleights and clever verbal jabs. Perhaps, to make his guise more convincing, Izlude might deliver a few such insults.
Excuse me? his more rational, and more neglected, inner voice spoke up. You, who was practically raised to be courteous and considerate to anything loftier than a carrion eater, insult a perfect stranger, for no good reason, all on the off-chance that he'll laugh instead of drawing his gun and blowing your head off?! If you can do that, you really are made for spycraft!
Idly wondering just how many times the holy stone could bring one back from death, the knight blade turned his attention back to his "kinsman".
"'The Ghostbuster of Gollund'!" the boyar quoted, seeming to grow more and more pleased by the chance meeting with each passing moment. "A credit you are to your kindred back in the Motherland! Most auspicious it is to meet you. I am Dmitri Kurakin Izmaylov the Twelfth, boyar of Tatsinskaya and Mordavia, and there is no pistoleer commander more well known or more feared than I."
Izlude actually hadn't heard that name at all, for who could forget a name and title with so many syllables? He considered making that his first jab but quickly changed his mind. Instead, he injected a degree of reverence into his smile and, remembering another passage from the book, had been partway through the proper bow before the boyar snatched him by the shoulder to straighten him up.
"None of that, none of that!" he exclaimed emphatically. "We are here to drink and dance and be merry! Do not bother me with all the cloying protocol I came here to get away from."
That took Izude by surprise, as more than a few of the Ivalician nobles couldn't get enough of watching those beneath them grovel. But, then again, this boyar was also a pistoleer, and was likely more at home in the saddle, with pistol in hand and an enemy in his gun sights, than in whatever opulence he'd chosen to sail away from. This was especially striking, given that Romandans often mixed poorly with other lands and cultures. He also had the look of a warrior, being tall and broad-shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard and a voice that could likely be heard by most of the ballroom. And, when he offered a hand to Izlude, the knight blade could add a grip that could crack walnuts to that list of characteristics.
"Call me Dmitri," the boyar requested. "Your king's chancellor tried to pronounce the whole thing, and he nearly tied his tongue in a knot."
I can believe it, Izlude mused, though his amusement likely showed.
"But, 'Damien Mitchell'?" the boyar went on, and Izlude sensed an opportunity approaching. "What kind of a name is that?!"
"A pronounceable kind," the knight blade said coyly. "Tell me, when you're vetting candidates for the post of majordomo, do you give them ten chances to introduce you properly? Or, is it twenty?"
Dmitri gaped at Izlude for a second, which caused the knight blade to wonder if he'd misjudged the length of the boyar's humor, but the man then smiled and roared with the hilarity of it.
Izlude had often heard the phrase "laugh, and the world laughs with you". In the boyar's case, a more appropriate phrase likely would've been "laugh, and the world covers its ears". The man was deafening!
Still, at least he seemed vastly more amused than offended, so Izlude suspected his first jab had struck true. But, after the boyar began to clap him on the back hard enough to uproot a small tree, Izlude was second-guessing the wisdom of trying another.
"You have the wits of your countrymen after all!" Dmitri cheered, loudly enough to attract stares from across the room. "Let us drink. Alexei! Nicolai! A vodka for each of us, at once!"
A pair of huge, silent men, whom Izlude guessed to be the boyar's bodyguards, promptly left and returned a moment later, each carrying a glass of clear liquid which, if Izlude remembered correctly, was potent Romandan alcohol.
Very potent, judging by the smell.
Having risen from two hangovers courtesy of Georg, the very last thing the knight blade wanted was to be too drunk to complete his long-awaited reunion with Alma. Still, he didn't fancy his chances of getting the bellicose boyar to listen to a polite refusal. Gulping, and hoping that Georg's forcing beer on him might've fortified his unimpressive tolerance, Izlude followed Dmitri's example and raised his glass.
"To the Motherland! May our absence from home be brief!" the boyar thundered merrily.
"And to the people dear to us, who make home a place to cherish instead of just a place!" Izlude answered, his thoughts straying towards Alma, Meliadoul, and Donavan, wondering how and if he might speak to them again as his true self.
Approving of the knight blade's sentiments, even if he could not discern their full depths, the boyar again laughed piercingly and clapped Izlude on the back. This had the fortuitous result of spilling Izlude's vodka, but Dmitri didn't seem to notice and, if his huge bodyguards had seen it, they gave no sign.
"Well said, well said!" the boyar belted out happily. "You are here for the lady of the hour, I gather?"
For the better part of twenty minutes, the pair carried on their chat, with Izlude hardly needing to feign his starry-eyed wonderment at the mysterious Duchess Catherine Seymour. As was the case with Mustadio, he'd stuck to his almost truthful story about having never met her and yet becoming enchanted as he'd heard tales. Later, at Dmitri's insistence, Izlude relayed the tale of his battle in Gollund, albeit with such precautions as leaving out the holy stone.
After that, and for the sake of courtesy - which seemed downright cathartic after throwing out several more playful insults that the boyar found very amusing - the knight blade asked after Dmitri's domains. Recalling from the book that Tatsinskaya was located along a northerly stretch of Romanda's icy coast, Izlude mentioned that his grandfather had, at times, described the beautiful fjords there.
After some fascinating tales of the exotic fish that could be found in waters cold enough to freeze men solid, Dmitri elected to make a curious proposition.
"Wait, you want me to join you when you return to Romanda?" he blurted, astonished.
"That, I do," the boyar confirmed, though his customary bombast did soften when he noticed Izlude's eyes stray towards the broad, carpeted staircase where "Duchess Catherine" would soon make her entrance. "Do not misunderstand me, friend. I am not asking you to throw away your quest for love over a...business proposition, but hear me out. Tell me, did your grandparents tell you...how far a 'ghostbuster' can go in Romanda?"
"Actually, they didn't," Izlude answered truthfully, unable to recall anything helpful from the book. "But, then, I was quite young when they passed. Maybe they thought it best not to speak of such things."
"Ah, then allow me. You know of our harsh winters, yes? Well, even today, it is far from unheard-of for elders and sickly children to be taken by the cold. And, because the turf can become as hard as stone under the ice, it is not always possible to give our dead a proper burial. Sometimes, the dead are...displeased by this, and they rise again. This is problem Ivalicians are familiar with, yes?"
"It is. The ghosts I fought in Gollund were anchored here both by the wickedness they'd done in life and by their greed."
"And, those were quite dangerous, no? Well, so are the undead in my homeland. They are many, and they have all the persistence of beings who cannot lose their lives. So, a 'ghostbuster', as the Times call you, can make a killing in Romanda...you will pardon the pun, yes?"
In truth, the pun was the very last thing on Izlude's mind. The boyar was, undoubtedly, leading up to hiring the knight blade's service as a hunter of ghosts and zombies. And, Izlude was forced to admit, he was conflicted. It was true that he'd often lamented that he knew so little of Damien Mitchell, and how it pained him that the real Damien didn't even have anyone to mourn him, save the stranger who'd appropriated his name and face and yet knew practically nothing about the man whose identity he'd borrowed. It was also true that as the notion that Damien was of Romandan descent became more and more corroborated, Izlude had found himself curious about that icebound land and its people, especially after reading about it as much as he could given his mission.
No less compelling, Izlude was uniquely aware of the pain and suffering which the wandering dead could visit upon the living, as the handful of specters in Gollund had come within inches of ruining Aldrich's business, which would've caused hundreds if not thousands of good people to lose their jobs, and which would've affected many more by hobbling the reconstruction of Ivalice. The notion of such dead rising in anger at the living for failing to bury them - and when the living could no more dig a grave in the icy turf than they could dig to the invisible bedrock beneath the desert, no less - seemed even worse.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you hate winter? his often neglected more rational voice chimed in.
Yes, that was part of the reason Izlude was conflicted. If the winters in Romanda truly did grow so bad that properly burying the dead could become impossible, he was certain that they'd be vastly worse than the winters he'd so detested while growing up in Southern Lesalia. And, he was certain he didn't want to subject Alma to that...
...unless she felt differently.
Living under a false identity, as he was uniquely aware, was quite lonely. Alma reportedly taking in many of the children from the defunct workhouses had surely acted as a balm to that wound, but how long would they stay? Some might be adopted while others would grow up and likely choose to make their own way in the world, leaving her alone once more. And, since Alma had to resort to mundane means of disguising herself, there was always the chance that some highly observant acquaintance of hers might recognize her. Such a chance, no matter how slim, would make her isolation all the more painful.
What if she wanted to start over elsewhere, in a place where she had no cause to fear the gaze of every stranger? What if that same kind spirit he'd become so enamored with relished the chance of helping those in need on distant shores?
These were compelling questions, questions to which Izlude had no answers. And, these weren't the only ones, for the new Ivalice that had risen from the ashes of the War of the Lions yet yawned wide, rife with opportunities and adventures which, though enticing, were unfamiliar to him who'd been groomed to be a Templar during what turned out to be the final years of the order.
His future, following his reunion with Alma, was rife with questions about where he might sail on this uncharted sea.
But, these questions mattered little at the moment. After all, he had yet to reunite with Alma.
"Think it over," Dmitri urged, though Izlude had already decided to do just that. "After all, adventures on foreign shores, braving the elements, facing down danger, and earning a fortune doing it? That's the stuff that youth is made of!"
Perhaps Dmitri's vivaciousness was contagious, or maybe vodka could intoxicate one by aroma alone. Either way, Izlude simply couldn't help himself.
"So, since I cleared over one million gil during my first ghost hunting expedition, does that mean I'm now a very old man or that I should expect a second childhood?"
That prompted another gale of laughter and still more ferocious backslapping. If Izlude didn't come away from this conversation deafened and/or hunchbacked, it wouldn't be for lack of trying on the boyar's part.
"Keep this up, and your first ghost just might be mine!" Dmitri guffawed. "I'll keel over from laughter and haunt you. Still, think it over. I believe you could do much good in Romanda."
"I'll consider it," the knight blade replied, somehow not surprised that he wanted to give the matter earnest consideration regardless of his eventual decision. "For now, I await my lady. Do svidaniya."
"Do svidaniya, and may your lady leap into your arms, and then your bed, before the night is through."
Considering Izlude had already managed both back in Riovanes, he felt self-assurance and nostalgia in equal parts. Still, knowing better than to voice such, he thanked the boyar for the vote of confidence and took his leave.
As he continued to survey the other guests, Izlude saw many young men who looked like they came from all over Ivalice. Some looked to be noblemen, some still prosperous and others who had little besides their names and their lineages with which to urge their suit. Others look to be well-to-do commoners who, like Aldrich and "Damien Mitchell" himself, had earned great wealth in the newer and freer economy and were keen to further their newfound pedigrees by courting a duchess.
While waiting for Alma to make her entrance, Izlude tried to pass the time by wandering the ballroom and making small talk, if only because it might have looked suspicious if he kept to himself too much amidst the ever-present gossip that so characterized Lesalia. The Romadans in attendance greeted him cordially but did not chat with him at length.
As to the why of it, Izlude wasn't discounting the possibility that Dmitri's deep voice had allowed the whole ballroom to hear their conversation.
As the fated moment drew nearer, the small talk faded to a distant buzzing that was ultimately drowned out by the blood pounding in Izlude's ears. Deciding to gamble that a modest swig of wine might calm his nerves, and suspect he'd likely explode otherwise, he made his way to the refreshment table where such spirits were being served. But, his desperate stride came to a lurching halt when he noticed a figure slumped in a chair, nursing a glass of wine and clearly wishing he'd never touched it.
It was a young boy, but weeks removed from this thirteenth birthday and, between the garb of a squire which he wore and Izlude's somewhat murky recollections of himself at that age, he'd just been hazed by some of his older fellows who'd talked him into imbibing a drink too strong for his years.
Izlude had suffered much the same fate during his early days in the Templars, though the drink in question had been potent enough that he'd had to take Meliadoul's word for it, that wasn't what had stopped Izlude cold.
The boy had a face Izlude knew, and very well indeed.
Good heavens! It's me!
Well, sort of. Though the Pisces Stone had done many wondrous things during its time in Izlude's possession, he doubted it had seen fit to fill the gaps in his inebriation addled memory. Yet, though Mustadio had implied that one of the boys Alma had taken in resembled Izlude, and had described the resemblance as "eerie", the knight blade was certain the machinist had understated the case a little.
From the short cropped brown hair to the bleary green eyes that squinted against the light in the ballroom, Izlude felt as though he was looking at his own reflection, on a day many years ago when he'd first donned the golden armor of the Templars.
Izlude eyes blurred with sudden tears, not only with longing to have back his true face with which to greet his love but also knowing with sudden and crushing certainty just how much it must've pained Alma to act as this boy's surrogate mother when a face so akin to her, supposedly, lost love stared back at her all the while.
The boy either didn't notice Izlude's slack-jawed amazement or the wine had his head pounding too much for him to care; the knight blade suspected the latter was quite likely. But, when the boy belatedly realized that the figure standing over him was a knight, he made a lurching attempt to rise and salute, drowsily swaying from side to side as he tried to keep his feet. Having a sudden, very unpleasant memory involving something similar steal over him, the knight blade clapped a restraining hand on the boy's shoulder and gently pushed him back into his chair.
"Rest easy, son," he intoned softly, somewhat startled by his choice of phrasing. "You've had a busy day." Retrieving the wine glass from the boy's tenuous grip, a whiff of the strong bouquet had him wondering if someone wanted this day to be the boy's last. "You're fortunate to be all in one piece."
It looked like the boy didn't quite agree, and this was confirmed when he spied the wine glass and his expression contorted in such revulsion that one might think Izlude held a man's disembodied head.
"How do grown-ups stand that stuff?" he asked no one in particular, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Don't look at me," Izlude replied, somehow surprised at how freely he was speaking to his near-doppelganger. "I've been a grown-up for years, and they don't always make sense to me either."
Though he dove-tailed the sentiment with a smile, which soon found a twin on the boy's features, the knight blade couldn't help but feel a melancholy truth behind those flippant words.
The War of the Lions had thrown into sharp relief the evils that people were capable of doing to one another, as well as how easy it was to rationalize orchestrating such evil, whether the justification be lust for power or the belief that the suffering of the few in the moment would benefit the many in the ages to come or simple indifference towards whatever damage need be wrought to attain one's desires.
After all, the demon who'd evicted the soul of the once righteous Cardinal Draclau hadn't given a second thought to beggaring this boy's workhouse to finance the hunt for a stray holy stone rather than risk the secrecy of the Lucavi's machinations.
He decided against saying this, and not just because he felt that revealing the true, clawed hand behind the War of the Lions might be too explosive, but also because the boy likely had already made sad acquaintance with such depravity. Still, if Izlude knew Alma, she'd likely been able to acquaint him with the warmth of human kindness as well.
Another moment of silent admiration towards his love passed, and the knight blade decided to introduce himself to the boy.
After all, if tonight went as he'd hoped, the two of them would likely see a great deal of each other.
Recalling a relevant tidbit from the book on Romanda, he quickly darted to the buffet table and procured a bowl of brined cucumbers, which reportedly helped combat hangovers, and handed it to the boy. He also grabbed a chair and seated himself opposite his newfound companion.
"Those will help clear your head, I think," Izlude said, quickly falling into his role of Damien Mitchell. "My grandmother said they helped grandfather when he'd had too much to drink."
"They're really salty," the boy said, his expression suggesting that he didn't consider that a selling point.
"Well, if you keep drinking, you'd best get used to them." Seeing the boy's features screw up in disgust, Izlude mused aloud "I wonder if that's why grandmother was so certain it worked?"
That got a sliver of a smile out of the boy, and Izlude offered his hand.
"I'm Damien Mitchell," he said in a friendly tone. "And, you are?"
"My name's Manon," the boy answered, shaking the proffered hand with surprising firmness. "I am a squire in the service of Duchess Catherine Seymour."
"A squire? That's impressive. When I was your age, I had another year or so before I was eligible."
In truth, Izlude was newly inducted at or around Manon's age, but he suspected admitting that might raise awkward questions.
Still, Manon's unlikely, and assuredly unconventional, journey to knighthood showed well so far despite his brush with alcohol, for Izlude would discern lean, hard muscle on the otherwise small frame. And, despite his reportedly having crossed Alma's doorstep as a ragamuffin, one would never have guessed such as they took in the boy's well-groomed appearance and his courteous, if slurred, speech.
"You're a knight, aren't you?" Manon spoke up, his eyes beginning to clear as the Romandan remedy seemed to take effect.
"That's right," Izlude confirmed. "The knights in Favoham used to be called the Order of the Wyverns. There aren't many left, but most of the survivors have likely joined the king's new Order of the Chimera. I've considered it myself, but I haven't decided."
"I don't know if I want to be a Chimera, but I do want to be a knight. At the workhouse, I read about them all the time...well, I looked at the pictures. I didn't learn how to read until Sir Beowulf started to train me. He and I had weapons practice this morning and he says I show a lot of promise."
Though hindsight might see Izlude chastising himself for it, this revelation sent his eyes pulsing wide with amazement. He had heard of Sir Beowulf Kadmus who, despite being a Gryphon Knight, had been trained in the Templar art of the Spellblade and had been considered a staunch defender of the faith.
That had made the accusations against him difficult to swallow, even before learning they came from the ever-suspect tongue of Celebrant Bremondt. Still, a mark of heresy, which was a badge of ignominy on the same order as that of murderer or rapist or oathbreaker, was not dispensed lightly...
...but, it could be dispensed falsely.
After all, Ramza Beoulve's slaying of the Lucavi demon who'd subverted Cardinal Draclau had seen him bear such a mark, supposedly to his grave, and yet Izlude was amongst the few to know the truth.
Was it possible that Beowulf had been similarly maligned? And, if so, how had he managed to keep his head when faced with a charge that could see even a duke's neck on the chopping block?
"Sir Beowulf?" Izlude asked, unable to hide his amazement. "I thought he was stripped of command for heresy."
"Not anymore," Manon said, a hint of smug vindication in his tone. "King Delita and High Confessor Ryker discovered that the charges against him were false. He's been cleared, and the king wants him to be the regional commander of all Chimera Knights in Lionel."
That, Izlude had to admit, came as a surprise. Offhand, he could not think of why the newly crowned king would pardon Beowulf, especially of an allegation so heinous that most would consider proof of guilt to be unnecessary. Granted, given Delita's sharp wits and newfound authority, not to mention how he likely had the now decimated church thoroughly leveraged, he likely could have accomplished such a feat. Still, it would surely have entailed considerable risk while yielding him no obvious benefits.
So, why would Delita do such a thing for an accused heretic when he had neither any clear relationship to the man nor any discernible motive to help him?
Then, recalling another supposed heretic, Izlude felt he had the answer.
Could this have something to do with the assertion Ramza had made on that distant day in Riovanes Castle, that he yet held faith in his old friendship with Delita despite the latter's actions?
The knight blade could not say. Indeed, he wasn't even sure if one alleged heretic had anything to do with the other, yet he saw little reason to discount that there was a connection. Especially since Beowulf's new position meant he now spent a great deal of time under Ramza's - and Alma's - roof.
"That is a rare and impressive feat, to survive a mark of heresy," he admitted, feelingly. "Even those who were later proven innocent often weren't in a position to appreciate it."
"I know," Manon said, his eyes and words growing clearer by the moment. "He must be a great warrior, then. And, I want to learn from the best."
"For me, it was wanting to be like my father and older sister." Izlude felt that such a sliver of truth would prove innocuous enough. "Being of Romandan stock, it wasn't easy to get a fair shake. Luckily, we caught the eye of certain people who can appreciate a warrior's sword arm more than where they came from. And, hard though it was, my father and older sister made a name for themselves. I admired them a great deal for that, and I swore I'd do the same, no matter how long or hard it might be."
"Did you fight in the war?"
"Yes, I did. Though Favoham was neutral, I sensed that I'd worn out my welcome there after raising too many objections to Duke Barrington's treatment of those beneath him. So, I departed to join King Delita's army. He wasn't king at the time, of course, but he did command the army by then. And, I'd heard many good things about him. I was at the Battle of Fort Besselat, and I was nearly killed when the sluice opened. I would've drowned, but my mount dragged me ashore and some kindly farmers in Limberry nursed me back to health."
As was often the case, the knight blade's story danced back and forth over the line between telling as much truth as he could and making what revisions or omissions he felt were needed. Still, despite the creative license, he sensed that this particular story would do Manon some good.
Too many knights viewed the common folk in much the same light as did the nobles who'd nearly steered the realm to ruin, and too many chose wrongly when they realized they were in the service of a lord who had neither honor nor any compunction against issuing orders criminal and immoral.
Though Izlude had learned the latter in a manner too volatile to disclose, he hoped the story might help if Manon found himself in the unenviable position of his duty to his lord and his honor as a knight becoming mutually exclusive. As for learning humility from owing one's life to people most would look down upon, that was a lesson Izlude thought best taught as unfiltered as he dared.
"They sound like good people," Manon opined, something resembling nostalgia crossing his face. "It's funny, I didn't think there were that many. Especially not after the grown-ups from the workhouse just left us when they stopped getting their pay. But, when Charlotte and I went to Lionel Castle, we ended up meeting a whole bunch. Lady Catherine is very kind, and I really think I'd do anything for her."
"I can believe it," Izlude said, feelingly. "And, I think she's lucky to have you. But, who's Charlotte?"
"She's a...friend of mine from the workhouse. When I left, I took her with me. I'm training to be a knight, and Lady Catherine thinks Charlotte could be one of her ladies-in-waiting when she's older."
"Lady Catherine trusted you so easily?"
"Well, she did. But, Lord Drake needed convincing, especially since we'd be around Rachel so much."
"Who's Rachel?"
"She's Lord Drake and Lady Agrias's daughter. They're over there."
Izlude had been expecting a lot of things when he arrived at the ball, for he'd attended enough of them to know that one gala had much in common with any other.
The hordes of men vying for Alma's hand, he'd expected. Especially given the ever-spreading stories of her charm and beauty whose veracity he was...intimately aware of.
The opulent decor and decadent cuisine, he'd expected; it simply wouldn't be a ball at Lesalia Castle if such things were absent.
Drake Seymour - known to but a few as Ramza Beoulve - being in attendance, he'd expected; especially given that his sister was here to find herself a likely husband. Izlude had also expected Ramza to disguise himself, and his following Manon's gaze allowed him to see that Ramza had dyed his hair red and now sported a mustache that looked like he'd stolen it from a local theater's makeup drawer.
What he had not expected was for Ramza to be seated next to Agrias Oaks, bouncing a baby on his knee.
Ramza was cooing over the baby and, though distance and the density of the crowd made it impossible to either hear him or read his lips, there was no mistaking the delight on the Duke of Lionel's face as the baby - Rachel - giggled and flailed her chubby arms. Agrias, seated next to the pair, rolled her eyes good naturedly and one hand darted in to tickle the baby.
It was a precious scene, and one that had eased a heartfelt smile from Izlude, followed by a heartfelt laugh when Rachel spit up on Ramza and sent the Duke of Lionel scurrying off for a change of clothes. Still, though the knight blade did find his potential niece quite fetching, he still felt more than a bit of perplexity regarding the unknown and unknowing progeny of the fallen House Beoulve.
Izlude's knowledge of babies was exceptionally sparse, but he was positive that the child was too old to have been sired after the War of the Lions had ended. So, could that mean she was conceived beforehand? Then, sudden realization dawned, and a coy smile tugged at the knight blade's lips.
Ah, so that was why Agrias looked so fat...I mean glowing when I was shadowing them after Riovanes. She must've been pregnant at the time. Ramza, you stud!
Izlude had sensed that Ramza and Agrias had been more than simply comrades-in-arms as he'd shadowed them, and he'd also noticed many peculiarities in Agrias. She had hardly acted the part of the cold and off-putting woman she was reputed to be, then or now. And, despite the distance and the ebb and flow of people between him and the holy knight, the knight blade could see the warmth with which Agrias regarded her baby and her thinly veiled amusement at Ramza's small misfortune.
"She is precious," Izlude said as he watched Agrias level a scolding finger at Rachel only for the baby girl to demonstrate that she'd inherited her mother's firm grip. "I daresay that Duke Seymour is a very lucky man. By the way, this...friend of yours, Charlotte? Is she around here somewhere?"
Manon glanced around for a moment and then caught sight of something that caused his expression to brighten. Waving to someone amidst the crowd, a bit too wildly for a formal setting, the knight blade followed his gaze and beheld another familiar face.
Approaching them was Alma...but not quite.
Though the girl had the same long blonde hair and sky blue eyes as the woman who'd won his heart so long ago in Riovanes, the girl who'd approached was just barely past from her tenth birthday. And, whereas Manon dressed like a squire, the girl wore the garb of a burgeoning orator. She wore a tunic of reddish pink that descended to join a slit gown and soft leather boots. She lacked either the elaborate headpiece which characterized those orators who'd passed their examinations and the gun which orators often carried when the need arose for "aggressive negotiations".
Another obvious difference between this girl and Alma was, whereas the Beoulve girl had been as slender as an aspen, the robe of a junior orator was sorely pressed to conceal the younger girl's potbelly. Her cheeks were also quite a bit thicker than Izlude would've expected, and this was accentuated when a cooing older woman gave them a merry pinch in midstride. And, explanation for both was obviated by the two plates she bore in either hand, both of which were crammed with pastries.
The girl - Charlotte, Izlude suspected - had been approaching Manon, an expression of barely concealed amusement on her features. When she caught sight of Izlude, however, she drew up short, her humor giving way to wariness and suspicion. Still, knowing the story of the workhouse where she'd likely come from, the knight blade could hardly blame her for being leery at the sight of a grownup hovering over Manon. Such unhappy experiences aside, she might've gotten a laugh at Manon's scattered wits, but seeing one of the people who might've hazed him was likely another story.
Aside from the suspicion, however, Izlude could see concern for the boy seated next to him in her sky blue orbs. And, between that and the slight hesitation that had crept into Manon's words when he described Charlotte as "a friend", the knight blade found himself thinking that the pair resembling miniatures of himself and Alma might go further than simple appearances.
Did Alma, perhaps, see in them what might have happened if fate's capricious hand had drawn Izlude and Alma together when they were much younger? If so, perhaps she sought to help the two have that which had been cruelly snatched away from her and her supposedly dead beloved? Yet, her act of conscience and charity would've had her watch many a might-have-been unfold before her eyes all the while.
Though she'd never drawn steel in war, it seemed that Alma had the sort of constitution which so characterized her knightly forbearers.
That realization steeled Izlude's determination that, of the horde of men vying for Alma's hand, he would be the prevailing suitor. And, whether the stone could restore his true face or not, he swore he'd find a way to prove that the man she thought she'd lost still lived and had come back for her.
For now, however, he felt he ought to try and do what his beloved did and reach out a gentle hand to these children who, God willing, would soon be like family to him.
"Hello there," he said, smiling reassuringly before he beckoned for her to approach. "Come here, my little friend. Don't be afraid."
The girl took only a few tentative steps forward, her eyes straying towards Manon as she approached. Though the boy had recovered most of his faculties, his gaze was still somewhat bleary and he sometimes brought up a hand to massage away at temples likely throbbing under the abuse of the gala around him. That sight caused Charlotte to approach more quickly, a hint of alarm on her young face, but Izlude calmly offered the girl his chair and said "Oh, don't worry. He'll be alright."
It took a good few minutes of Charlotte studying a firmly protesting Manon before she shared the knight blade's assessment, but he'd found the scene between the two quite amusing. Once she was done fussing over the boy, Charlotte settled back into her seat and sagged with relief. However, when she belatedly remembered who'd been using it beforehand, she sprang back to her feet, turned to face Izlude, and dipped into a proper, if hasty, curtsy.
"You have my thanks, Sir Knight, for your courtesy," she said, having apparently been drilled in etiquette and protocol. "I trust the evening finds you well?"
"Very well, indeed," Izlude answered as he fetched another chair and seated himself between the two children. When he saw the pair look subtly nonplussed at the seating arrangements, he inwardly snickered.
I think Alma and I may have just found our first project, he mused, valiantly forcing himself to keep a straight face.
"You are Charlotte, I presume?" he asked, to which the girl nodded. "Manon has been telling me about you. He mentioned that Lady Catherine would like you to be one of her ladies-in-waiting, but he didn't mention you were already being trained."
"Your pardon, Sir, but I'm not being trained yet," the girl admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "Well, not formally. I found some books about what I need to know and have been practicing whenever I can."
"Oh, so you know how to read?"
"Yes, Sir. Before the grown-ups left the workhouse, one of them taught me. When I first got to the castle, I wanted to do something nice for Lady Catherine. So, I went through the cookbooks and tried to make her a good meal. It took a few tries, but she really liked my bacon quiche."
Looks like she wasn't the only one, Izlude mused as he tried not to stare at Charlotte's stomach which, now that she was seated, covered a fair portion of her thighs.
Long since acquainted with the myriad reasons not to say such things aloud, and with an image of Meliadoul waving her fists menacingly to reinforce the lesson, Izlude instead gave an approving nod. More than a few tales he'd heard from the war had included people, many of whom once decent and honest to a fault, becoming so ensnared by the chaos and poverty of Ivalice that any act that would ensure their continued survival was acceptable, no matter how disreputable and heinous it might be.
Had the two children taken advantage of Alma's generosity and simply pilfered what food and coin they could carry before vanishing into the night, the Beoulve girl could've been considered lucky.
Others who'd shown generosity to those whose desperation had driven them to depravity had fared worse. In some cases, much, much worse.
That Manon and Charlotte, desperate and impoverished though they were, had proven so different from many others who'd been in the same straits impressed Izlude. And, he could only shake his head in amazement that Alma had helped to draw forth the better natures of such unlikely people.
He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, though. After all, she'd worked a similar magic on him that had seen him ask for her hand and, later, give his life so that the leonine demon behind the Riovanes massacre might fail to add her to its collection of victims.
"Since Lady Catherine made her request, I've been reading about sewing and painting, how to plan out my lady's schedule and what to watch out for when I go through her letters," Charlotte continued. "Most of it, I won't be able to do until I'm older, but I want to be ready when the time comes."
"That sort of dedication is admirable in one so young," Izlude said with an approving nod.
"Thank you, Sir...um, I forgot to ask your name. Sorry."
"That's alright; when you have many responsibilities, it takes practice to remember them all. Back when I was a squire, I had to make sure my sword was sharp, my armor in good condition, my mount fed, and more. It took a lot of practice before I could remember it all, and it might've helped if I'd done it your way instead of being so keen to joust and gallivant about on my chocobo. Still, I managed it, and I think you will too. Oh, I nearly forgot. My name is Damien Mitchell, formerly of the Order of the Wyverns."
He could discern a hint of amusement in Charlotte at his having forgetting to introduce himself, but that didn't stop him from rising to give a perfunctory bow, as he would to any fine lady. Clearly unused to such treatment, the girl blushed profusely.
"So, you're here to try and court Lady Catherine?" Manon asked, and the knight blade could sense an earnestness behind the question that went beyond the boy's years.
After giving a solemn nod, Izlude drew upon his, by now, a well-practiced tale of how he'd heard the stories of the Duchess Seymour's beauty and charm, and that he'd become more enthralled with each telling. Then, unexpectedly breaking from his unwritten script, he added how his enchantment became all the greater when he'd learned of "Lady Catherine's" kindness in opening her doors to many of the children who'd been orphaned by the wars and then abandoned by church and state alike, dovetailing the sentiment with a hastily drawn tale of how his objections to Duke Barrington's callousness had eventually cost him his hard-won welcome at Riovanes.
Perhaps allowing that much emotion to seep into his tale had been a risk, for a mind that needs to weave strategic embellishments upon the truth can find that narrow path blurred by either the cold depths of anger or the warmth that lingered about the heights of transcendent joy. Yet, Izlude could not bring himself to care whether they spotted some oddity in his tale or not.
In a matter of hours, if he was lucky, he would be reunited with Alma and these two might effectively become his stepchildren. Perhaps he wanted to be able to tell them as much of the truth as he could possibly reveal? Maybe, like Alma, he wanted for these children of the wars to have a better future than their forbearers had known. Or, since he'd soon be joining this unlikely family, he, who had hewn out a new circle of friends in his time as Damien Mitchell, was eager to once more find, and extend, acceptance amongst the people with whom he'd share his newfound life.
Whatever the reason, though the two children exchanged glances that hinted at something Izlude could not guess at, his heart felt light when they regarded him with approval.
"Sounds like making Lady Catherine happy means a lot to you," Manon observed, meditatively stroking his chin before his gaze sharpened into feigned hostility. "That's good. You'd have me to deal with otherwise."
"Oh, stop that, Manon," Charlotte chastised, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "Please, don't mind him, Sir Damien. Still, I'm glad you said all that. A lot of the suitors seem to just want Lady Catherine for her money or because she's really pretty. It's been bothering her a lot. She doesn't let it show, but I can tell."
"I can believe it," the knight blade affirmed. "And, she must be a good woman for you two to care about her so much."
"Yes, Sir. I really hope she finds a good husband. One who will be good to her and her...family."
It might've been Izlude's imagination, but he could've sworn Charlotte's eyes popped wide part way through that last sentence. But, after a moment's perplexity, he decided that he must've been mistaken. Charlotte, for her part, quickly began to dig into the pastries she'd collected.
Her table manners showed that she was taking her advance studies to be a lady-in-waiting seriously...and her clearing one of the plates and promptly starting on the second promptly explained how a onetime street waif had become so round in a matter of weeks.
"Er...," Izlude murmured, idly wondering if Alma had had moments like this. "Are you sure you should be eating that much?"
"Don't bother," Manon spoke up. "Lady Catherine has already tried two or three times and didn't get far."
"Manon," Charlotte spoke up, very nearly sounding like an orator making an opening argument, "We're only going to be here for another day. You know how many times I dreamed about visiting a place like this? I'm going to enjoy every bit of it that I can."
"Hope you enjoy getting lectured by Lady Catherine, then. She's not going to be happy that you didn't listen and pigged out until you got sick. Again."
Perhaps Izlude was keen to prevent further worries troubling Alma, since she surely had enough to deal with already. Maybe, since these two children who were very nearly Alma's own and were growing on him as well, he did not relish the idea of them earning the ire of their mother-figure.
Young he might've been when his own mother passed away, but he was quite certain that one who'd riled her came away regretting it.
Or, possibly, something akin to paternal instinct was taking root at having met those who would, for all intents and purposes, be his stepchildren once he and Alma were finally wed, and he'd begun to share Alma's desire to see them grow into honest and responsible people.
"Was Lady Catherine upset when this happened?" he asked, his words taking on a serious edge.
Charlotte's reddening cheeks were almost as good as an affirmative.
"This might not be my business," the knight blade admitted, mentally adding yet, "but, I'm going to have to side with Manon here. I can guess why Lady Catherine would be concerned. Is it true that it made you sick once or twice?"
Again, Charlotte was silent, but her silence spoke volumes.
"Lady Catherine warned you that might happen, I'm guessing?" this time, Charlotte nodded. "Well, from what you've told me, she did that because she cares for you. And, quite a bit, I think. It wouldn't do to just ignore her, especially since you already know that she was right. Now, I think you ought to share some of those pastries with Manon."
Already acquainted with the effects alcohol could have on the stomach, Izlude was not surprised when Manon waved away the confections, looking slightly ill.
"Getting something in your stomach will help you feel better," Izlude advised him firmly. "Drinking too much wine can make you feel overtired, and the sugar will help you wake up."
With great reluctance, Manon nodded. And, with even greater reluctance, Charlotte slid the plate over to him, but not before snatching a cream filled horn and scarfing it down before Izlude could react. Rolling his eyes, the knight blade watched as Manon nibbled on the fare and quickly began to perk up.
"That does feel better," the boy opined. "Thank you, Sir."
"Don't thank me, thank Charlotte," Izlude replied, trying to keep a sly undertone from his words. "I think it's the mark of a good lady to be considerate of others. I also think the proper way to repay her is with a dance."
Manon's eyes were well and truly clear of the wine's effects.
Given how wide they were after that pronouncement, it was easy to tell.
After the two children were done spluttering excuses and decided to take his suggestion later in the evening, the trio conversed at some length. Izlude asked a few questions about Lady Catherine, finding that Alma's pseudonym was growing on him after he'd heard it from the mouths of her unlikely wards.
From them, Izlude learned that, in addition to Alma, Ramza, Agrias, and baby Rachel, other inhabitants of the castle included Rad Philips and the Murry twins while Beowulf Kadmus and his newly wedded wife, Reis Kadmus, were frequent visitors. He also learned about some of the other children, in particular the young storyteller Deckard Cain who, when he prefaced one of his tales by belting out "Stay awhile and listen", even got the adults jockeying for the best seats.
Izlude, in turn, told the children about the people he'd met on his journey, such as the Fredericks, Sir Alian, Georg, Gerde, the Boulder Devils, Aldrich, Claudio, Pat, Thomas, and even Mustadio, carefully disclosing that the machinist was a friend and brother-in-arms to "Drake" and that he sought the hand of another of the duke's compatriots, the Divine Knight Meliadoul Tingel. He even told them about Dmitri, doing an imitation of the boyar's thick accent and bombastic tones which was found very amusing by all...
...including Dmitri when he joined them.
Reminded that "Damien" was of foreign stock, the children were quick to ask about Romanda, and the knight blade and the boyar alternately told of the icebound kingdom's history and its folklore, such as the domovoi, diminutive spirits that watched over households to ward off misfortune.
Dmitri had been about to launch into a tale about the rusalka, the spirit of a drowned, unmarried woman who sought vengeance by luring men into her lake and dragging them under. When Izlude recalled this rather grisly tale, and that the rusalka did it while not wearing a stitch of clothing, he promptly redirected the subject towards the riddle-loving leshy.
Through it all, the knight blade felt himself growing fonder of the two children, and more and more amazed at how Alma had helped the former street waifs become what they were now. That was an impressive enough feat, even leaving aside that she saw what she and Izlude could've had with every glance at them and that, as was the case when she'd gambled her freedom on Izlude being cut from a different cloth than the corrupted church and the Lucavi hosts, she had gambled that the two children's better natures were hidden beneath the rags and grime and that she could dredge it up.
Alma, Izlude decided, would make a good mother.
The chatter between the four continued for some time until, so suddenly that one of their number was cut off in midsentence, a blaring of trumpets echoed through the ballroom. Realizing that the moment must be upon him at last, Izlude saw that the grand doors at the top of the carpeted staircase had opened and a young man, dressed in the regalia of high office and with dark hair that had been pulled into a small ponytail tied behind a head that had been shaved on either side, strode through and boldly called for everyone's attention.
"Attention, ladies and gentlemen, fellow Ivalicians, as well as honored guests from distant lands! As chancellor, I, Olan Durai, am honored to present to you our humble rulers, King Delita and Queen Ovelia Hyral!"
At the sound of Olan's voice, everyone in the ballroom turned and bowed as the royal couple descended to the ballroom. Both were resplendent in the trappings of royalty and, despite knowing Delita to be of common birth, Izlude could not help but feel awed at the presence he exuded, and he wondered if even the famed Denamda IV could cause such wonderment in an audience with nary a word.
As soon as Delita and Ovelia were seated upon their thrones, the king turned to Olan and nodded. Taking the hint, the young chancellor continued.
"And, with the permission of the king and queen, I am also honored to present to all of you the lady of the hour, Duchess Catherine Seymour, sister to Duke Drake Seymour of Lionel!"
At this pronouncement, a young man and woman, who appeared about the same age of the king and queen, appeared atop the staircase and, with the brother offering his arm to his sister, the pair descended towards the ballroom. Upon seeing the siblings, the guests started to quietly whisper among themselves, no doubt chattering on about the Seymours' red hair. Some were lamenting that the duke was already married, especially after seeing how he cut an impressive figure in his blue doublet and supple leather leggings.
Izlude, by contrast, was trying to tell, with wry amusement, whether Ramza had changed clothes or merely did a good job of wiping away the spit-up.
However, most eyes, including Izlude's, were quickly riveted upon the beauty of the duchess herself. Duchess Seymour was radiant in her velvet green dress with black laces, though the dress was well and truly eclipsed by her lustrous red hair, the inviting red hue of her cheeks, and her generous curves. Having finally laid eyes upon the object of his desire, the knight blade's breath caught in his throat while his palms began to sweat and his heart to race. Claudio was right. His portrait of "Catherine", although impressive, did not do her beauty justice.
When they finally stood before the royal couple, the Duke and Duchess of Lionel bowed before their new rulers. Izlude watched as "Drake", whose newly grown mustache still looked like a costume piece but did make him less recognizable as Ramza Beoulve, took King Delita's hand and pressed it to his forehead in a gesture of humility and respect. Likewise, Catherine followed suit with Queen Ovelia.
"As the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel, we are honored to pledge our loyalty to the crown of Ivalice, now and forevermore," they said together, ensuring their words carried to everyone in the ballroom.
"By your leave, Your Majesties."
The royal couple nodded and with their approval, the duke and duchess turned to face the guests. After exchanging a glance with Alma, which Izlude was unable to see from his vantage point, Ramza spoke.
"As the Duke of Lionel, I present to you my sister, Duchess Catherine," he began, and Izlude could swear there was a slight hitch in his voice. "As many of you are aware, she will choose one from among you to be her husband. I'm sure it will be difficult for her, as you are all fine young men; but, rest assured, she is well aware of your efforts and will give each and every one of you due consideration."
Izlude watched as the guests cheered with great enthusiasm and, although he knew the other young men were his competition, he could not help but join in as well. Though he'd had no shortage of evidence, be it the holy stone's reassuring pulses or Claudio's portrait, none could lighten his heart so much as seeing Alma, alive and well, at long last.
Now that it had finally begun in earnest, the second evening of the ball proceeded much like the first. As laid out by the king, the suitors were to be presented to Duchess Catherine according the order in which they arrived and signed in. And, since Izlude was the very last to do so, he realized, much to his frustration, that he was going to be the last to be introduced to Alma. And so, he grudgingly resigned himself to watching, with keen interest, and maybe a little jealousy, as the woman he'd ventured back from the afterlife to see danced with one suitor after another.
A lifetime of adherence to the chivalric code kept him from cutting in line...with his sword.
Ramza, on the other hand, noticed that his sister was making more of an effort to smile and at least feign interest in the numerous young men seeking her hand. But even so, she did not seem to be doing much more than she had the previous night in giving any of them "due consideration" as her potential husband.
And, leaving aside the dirty looks that had been discreetly sent in his direction by some of the more petulant of those who'd been obliquely rejected, Ramza knew his sister well enough to tell that her heart simply wasn't in to the contrived dances or the men who urged heartfelt suits. Though Ovelia had fared better than he in conveying the importance of having a husband before her pregnancy could no longer be hidden, it seemed these earnest warnings had not been enough.
Ramza was frustrated and angry by Alma's reticence, but most of all her behavior made him worry that she was jeopardizing her child's very future, again.
Fortunately for the overwrought duke, the solution to his problem arrived in the form of a raven-haired young man with steel-grey eyes.
When Izlude's turn to be introduced to Alma finally arrived, he rose to his feet and, with a trio of encouraging voices urging him on, slowly approached this duchess. After taking a moment to regain his composure, he gave a formal bow, the sight of "Catherine" more than enough to chase away any thought of his unusual appearance belatedly catching the attention of everyone else in the ballroom. Even Olan was stunned for a moment before remembering to make the proper introduction.
"And, our final suitor for the night, may I present to you, Sir Damian Mitchell from the city of Yardow."
After seeing and dancing with so many young men already, Alma was, underneath her painted smile, the very opposite of enthusiastic. For what felt like weeks, she'd been introduced to one man after another and, though most were fair to the eye and had tales she might've otherwise found fascinating, she just wanted the ball to be over so she could return to her room. Her growing child seemed keen to burst out of her and her stomach, already bellicose enough with her emergent cravings, had begun to cramp fiercely. And, on top of that, her shoes clearly hadn't been made to accommodate her swollen ankles. Still, as much as she wished otherwise, she did promise Ovelia that she would consider at least one of her suitors and fought the urge to sigh as she lifted her gaze to meet that of the last man seeking her hand from amongst tonight's horde. What she saw almost made her heart stop.
The young man before Alma looked hauntingly similar to her lost love. Even though it had been months since their tragic parting, she swore he had an uncanny resemblance to Izlude. Though this young man had hair the color of the mid-night sky and his eyes were the color of cold steel, and was quite pale in comparison to Izlude's lightly tanned skin, his build and form were much akin to Izlude's, as was his posture and the way he carried himself. And, when he smiled, it so resembled that of the late Templar that Alma felt her cheeks grow hot.
I don't believe it, Alma thought. A Romandan? But, he's not dressed like the other ones here. Who is he, I wonder?
"My lady, is something the matter?"
"Oh!" Alma gasped softly, embarrassed that he caught her staring. "Please forgive me, I didn't mean to be rude."
Izlude's smile broadened before taking her delicate hand and bringing it to his lips. Having already seen Alma and her new look - first in a portrait, then up close as she danced with her other suitors - the knight blade already had time to adjust and was not as shocked as she was when looking at him.
"There is no need to apologize, my lady. I'm quite used to my appearance attracting attention."
"Are you Romandan? Pardon me for saying, but don't sound like one."
Although it had been years, Alma recalled her late father inviting a traveling Romandan merchant to Igros Castle. Though he'd kept the particulars to himself, he'd apparently chosen not to return to his home country before the borders closed during the Fifty Years War. When Balbanes introduced her and Ramza to the merchant, she remembered that his accent was different from the young man who was speaking to her now. Whereas the merchant spoke with a heavy nasal voice, rolled his r's, and had a peculiar habit of using w's where v's seemed a more likely fit, Sir Damien sounded more like a true Favoham native, with his thick burr and glottal stops.
"I am. But, I was not born in Romanda. I was born in Yardow, so I may as well be a native Ivalician. If I may be so bold to ask, may I have this dance, Duchess Catherine?"
For a long moment, Alma was conflicted. On the one hand, what had drawn her to this man had been his subtle, but palpable resemblance to Izlude and it would be a disservice to him, her baby, and herself if she allowed him into her life purely because of his vague resemblance to her lost love. But, on the other hand, his sudden appearance had caused something to kindle in her breast.
It might have been the simple curiosity that arose when faced with a handsome stranger, or it could've been the heat that arose in her cheeks in the presence of a charming man. It might also have been that faint and irrational, but irresistible hope that a blind and seemingly foolish gamble - on the same order as a young boy fighting the depredations of demonkind while on the run from church and state alike or a young girl trying to seduce her attractive captor in order to win her freedom - might end in happiness.
It was not lost on her that she'd last felt each and all with Izlude and, despite that - or, perhaps, because of that - Alma smiled her true and crooked smile and said "I would be honored."
Relieved that his love did not find his new appearance displeasing, and still as enamored with that smile as he had been in those halcyon days at Riovanes, Izlude took her hand and carefully led her to the dance floor. As they did, the other guests watched with great interest, many quietly incredulous that their suit had been met with indifference but as many more startled by the how strange and yet striking a match the pair made. A red-headed duchess and an Ivalican-born Romandan knight was indeed an unusual pair, and yet there was no denying how attractive his glossy ebon locks against her fiery crimson tresses were...