Finding My Way Back To You

by ShanoaWarrior

Brought back from the dead through the power of the holy stone, former Knight Templar, Izlude Tingel, is now able to keep his promise to his love, Alma Beoulve, whom he had died to protect and searches for her in post-Lion War Ivalice. Sequel to 'When Love Awaits'. Other pairings include Ramza/Agrias, Beowulf/Reis, Delita/Ovelia, Mustadio/Meliadoul, Rad/Alicia, Malak/Lavian.

24. Spirit of a Knightblade

A/N: Hi, it's Elly3981 again. I want to thank all the readers and reviewers who have been keeping up with this story for the last two years. Though scarce, I'm grateful for the encouragement to continue since it keeps the muse going so to speak, lol. Once again, I'd like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible. Enjoy and please review! ;)

Chapter 20: Spirit of a Knight Blade

The scene on the dance floor had caused the ever-fertile fields of Lesalian gossip to bloom once more with a fresh crop.

Given the lingering enigmas which yet shrouded Duchess Catherine Seymour, the king's young cousin who'd sprung seemingly from nowhere and then had tongues wagging and hearts pounding up and down the social stage, the sight of her in flight from one of her suitors had injected fresh wonderment into this mystery of a lady. As was often the case, this sudden twist was a welcome development, for, though this series of balls had been designed to find Duchess Catherine a husband, her seeming to find one in the Wyvern Knight of Romandan extraction had come too soon for most, causing the tale to end with an anticlimax that mingled in perfect sourness with the envy of those suitors who'd been met with polite indifference by the duchess.

But now, a twist! Something to set flagging interest flapping anew upon a fresh breeze of excited conjectures and idle speculations made in the heat of frivolous excitement which was the favorite pastime of all native Lesalians.

Izlude, being a native Lesalian himself and far from innocent where wagging tongues were concerned, knew this well. Knew also that rumors about him, and why "Duchess Catherine" was running away from him, were being woven, rewoven, and made increasingly embarrassing and ridiculous with every passing breath.

But, at the moment, he simply did not give a damn.

He had trekked dozens if not hundreds of leagues, dared a second death many times over, and spent months dreaming of reuniting with his beloved.

And, now, she was running away!

He could not lose her a second time.

"Duchess Catherine, please wait!" Izlude called out, his voice cracking with desperation as he attempted to follow Alma. By now, the pursuit had carried the pair beyond the ballroom and into the castle hallways.

Unfortunately, the ever-present gossipers had begun their chattering within the narrow gap between when Alma had flitted through their ranks and when Izlude attempted to follow her. Forced to wade, and sometimes shove, his way through the nattering magpies, he had lost sight of his love by the time he'd broken through.

Though he had grown up in South Lesalia and had been to the castle a few times, Izlude did not remember the layout of the castle too clearly, as it had been years since he'd last visited with his father. That Alma apparently had a keener memory would complicate his attempts to track her, and the sheer size of the castle, not to mention her head start, did not help matters either.

Still, the knight blade refused to give up. Forcing himself to calm down, he began heading in the direction he thought Alma had gone, while silently praying to the Holy Stone in his pocket to guide him to his love. He had come too far and worked too hard to lose her now.

As if hearing his silent plea, the stone started to glow and Izlude could feel it growing warm in his pocket. With some experimentation, he noticed the Holy Stone seemed to grow warmer when he headed in one direction and then cool down if he started to go astray from its unspoken guidance.

That the stone seemed to be guiding him came as no surprise, but he was thankful nonetheless.

Following its instructions, the disguised knight blade considered just where the stone might be taking him and, by extension, where Alma might be going. Though he still had no idea what had alarmed her so, he suspected she might be heading somewhere she could recover her wits in privacy. Off-hand, the most likely place seemed to be her quarters in Lesalia Castle's guest rooms. Izlude had only a hazy recollection of where those might be, but he suspected that the south tower was the most likely place.

Though not one square inch of Lesalia Castle was anything less than slathered in decadence, the south tower did offer a commanding view of the mountains he'd crossed travelling to and from Gollund.

A king could do a great many things to showcase his hospitality, and his wealth, for his guests' benefit, and making sure they could view such majestic peaks as they idly sipped tea on the balcony was a gesture that carried surprising import.

Given this expectation, and his faith that the Holy Stone would guide him to his beloved, one can imagine Izlude's surprise when the stone instead guided him on an easterly course.

From there, its capricious warmth chivvied him northward, then to the west, and finally south again.

Did you just take me in a circle? he silently asked the stone, confused trepidation seeping into his thoughts.

As had happened in the past, the stone gave off a pulse of energy that had a strangely reprimanding air and then guided him westward.

Bemused, but knowing he could scamper up and down the halls of the huge castle all night and not find Alma without guidance, Izlude had no choice but to hope that the Holy Stone will steer him in the right direction. And so far, it had remained warm until he found himself ascending a stairway that led out into the open air atop one of the castle's battlements.

Looking around, the knight blade spied a tower in the distance and assumed it must be the south tower. He was still curious why the stone had led him on such a roundabout course, since his hasty recollections told him that going directly south would've been quicker. A few possible explanations sprang to mind, such as there being unfriendly eyes waiting along that course and the stone either guiding him around them or diverting him until the way was clear, but somehow this did not ring true.

Shaking off the thought in confused resignation, knowing that the stone had many mysteries he might never unravel, Izlude turned his mind back to finding his love. Despite the bendy course he'd been led upon, his likely destination lay near, he just had to cross the battlement to get there. But as soon as Izlude took his first few steps, he felt the Holy Stone start to vibrate in his pocket, confirming another suspicion that had been nagging at him since he'd left the ballroom in pursuit of Alma.

Without turning around, Izlude suddenly spoke aloud. "You can come out now, whoever you are. I know you've been following me."

With a low chuckle, his pursuer answered. "Very astute. Normally, those I stalk do not detect my presence…until it is too late."

The voice sounded familiar, and Izlude turned to confront the person who had been stalking him. Emerging from the shadow of one of the nearby statues, stepping into the light of the full moon with the calm, deadly poise of a leonine predator, was a dusky-skinned young man with dark hair and bright hazel eyes. The knight blade recognized him right away as Malak Galthana, his friend from Riovanes whom he had known for only a few weeks prior to the tragic Lucavi massacre. Like himself, the netherseer was dressed formally, wearing a more elegant version of his customary garb which called to mind accounts of lost kingdoms amidst the sands ruled by monarchs who resided in marble palaces topped by lofty minarets. Izlude suspected that Malak's garb and presence at such an event as this ball meant that he was now the new Duke of Favoham, having inherited his adoptive father's title, lands, and fortune.

Recalling Rafa's tearful confession of what the man they'd once considered a father had done to her behind closed doors, and how Malak had raged at his failure to see it, the irony was not lost on either of the young men.

Not that Izlude had the luxury of pondering the strange twists life could take at the moment, for a sickening question had begun to work its way into his mind.

If the stone had kept him on a straighter course, might he have reached Alma without Malak catching up to him? Or, failing that, would this confrontation have happened after he'd spoken to Alma, maybe even with him having revealed his identity to her and being reunited for good and all?

Had the stone betrayed him by having him chase his tail while Malak closed in?

Had he misjudged its enigmatic intent, not realizing that it had wanted not to help him but to find a more suitable host for whatever demon lay ensconced within?

But, that didn't make sense either. By now, Malak had likely been around most of, if not all, of the other stones for some time. Surely, if he was susceptible to the Lucavi's demonic influence, he would've already been subverted. After all, Izlude had been carrying the Pisces Stone every minute of every day since his resurrection, and had yet to hear voices fell offering false promises spoken with forked tongues.

He refused to believe that the stone would guide him this far only to betray him, and yet he still could not fathom why else the stone would've deliberately allowed Malak to catch up with him. Unable to give answer, he chose instead to focus on his more immediate problems…

…such as the fact that he was in a deserted portion of the castle with a consummate assassin who was eyeing him with a less-than-friendly eye.

Hoping that his disguise would fool even Malak, Izlude feigned an expression of surprise and reverence while not allowing even a hint of recognition cross his features.

"Duke Galthana!" he gasped, sounding thunderstruck and hastily bowing. "This is an unexpected pleasure, and I am honored to meet you. If I may ask, milord, why have you been following me? Are you also interested in the Duchess of Lionel?"

The other young man narrowed his eyes. "Interested? I suppose you could say that. I'm very concerned for her. That's why I must ask: who exactly are you?"

Izlude was taken aback by Malak's question. Was he not present when the knight blade had made his formal introduction to the entire Ivalician court?

"Who am I? I am Sir Damien Mitchell, from the City of Yardow." Izlude replied, the well-practiced lie rolling off his tongue almost as easily as his birth name would have. "I am formerly a knight of the Order of the Wyverns, and was once a bodyguard to the late Duke of Favoham, Gerrith Barrington."

Malak glared at him. "Nonsense!" he snapped. "Do you take me for a fool? My adoptive father trusted Sir Damien and was rarely far from his side! I knew the man quite well…much more so than he was aware, I might add. And, you are not him! Come clean now, sir, who are you really?"

Izlude inwardly kicked himself for his oversight. Because the real Damien Mitchell had had no family, and since it was doubtful that any of his intimate friends had survived the Horror of Riovanes, Izlude had assumed that he'd never encounter anyone who'd known the real Damien well enough to spot any inconsistencies in his portrayal. How could he not have foreseen that Malak, the late Duke Barrington's adopted son, as well as his foremost assassin and chief enforcer, would know all of his adoptive father's bodyguards? Duke Barrington, as was the case with men who had broad power and no scruples, had many enemies and was ever on the alert for threats, both inside his domain as well as out. Thus, in order to protect himself, he had surely charged Malak with surveilling his bodyguards, keeping watch in case one of them should turn traitor.

The netherseer surely knew a great many things about the real Damien Mitchell…things which Izlude could barely even guess at.

Even so, the knight blade could not allow his true identity to slip.

As if reading his mind, Malak regarded him with the sharp, cunning eye of a hawk.

"I'll give you a chance to prove your claim, sir," he intoned, with palpable finality. "If you cannot, you will reveal your true self to me at once."

The disguised knight blade regarded his stalker in confusion, but decided to take any chance he could to convince Malak that he was indeed Damien Mitchell. With luck, the stone would discreetly guide his words, as it had so often guided his actions, so that he could diffuse the situation and be allowed to pursue his love in peace.

"Very well, what…what do you propose?" he asked, his voice wavering when the stone did not offer any sign that it approved of his unspoken plan.

Malak took a deep breath before speaking the question on his mind. "Years ago, Sir Damien came to my adoptive father, offering his service for nothing more than a roof over his head and three meals a day. This was the late duke's favorite price, since he was a tightfisted sort, preferring to spend only when the returns would vastly outweigh his losses. Spending nothing? Even better, in his opinion. Now, why do you think Sir Damien did that?"

Izlude blinked, and then felt himself perspire as he realized that the stone was not intervening on his behalf. Perhaps it was the sense of abandonment after the stone had guided him so far, and through so much that would have otherwise seen him dead for the second and final time. Maybe it was the ongoing confusion, and even a sense of betrayal, over why the stone had, seemingly, misdirected him so that Malak might overtake him and force this confrontation. Quite possibly, it was the very real danger he now faced, for Malak was a proficient assassin and, aside from Ramza, none whom he'd marked for death had escaped his grasp.

Forcing himself to concentrate, Izlude searched his mind for a convincing answer. To his knowledge, no man would offer his service for free unless he was in dire need of protection. And, what better protection than a post as bodyguard to a high-ranking noble, whose guards were also expected to watch each other's backs as well as their lord's?

Hoping his guess was right, and drawing upon his knowledge of the tumultuous history of Damien's ancestral home, Izlude gave his answer.

"My family originally hailed from Romanda," he began, recalling a helpful tidbit from the book of Romandan history he'd acquired. "After Romanda was thrown back from Ivalician soil during the Fifty Years' War, the powerbase of the Romandan Czar, Ivan Krasnya Pukov the Terrible, was greatly weakened. His younger brother, Boris Gegarin Pukov the Relentless, sought to oust his brother and claim the throne. My family backed him, but he was defeated. Since I was in danger of being tried and executed as an enemy of the crown in my homeland, I fled here. However, I desperately needed to ensure that I could stay in Ivalice. Offering my service to your late adoptive father free of charge was the most likely way to avoid being deported and sent back to the Czar's waiting jaws."

To that, Malak grinned. "A very clever answer!" he opined, very nearly sounding amused. "It was a well told and detailed story, all said with much conviction. But, there's a problem. You see, not only did the real Sir Damien never make my adoptive father such an offer, but he'd also gone to great lengths to keep his Romandan ancestry a secret! There's a thriving underworld amongst Favoham's community of Romandan immigrants, and they often sought to buy, or coerce, Sir Damien's cooperation. People who deal in smuggling, prostitution, usury, and such would have an easy time avoiding the duke's eye if they have the ear of someone close to him…and being refused by a countryman tends to anger them. But, the real Sir Damien would always feign incomprehension when they spoke to him in native Romandan, only to mutter those same words to himself when he thought he was alone."

Here, Malak paused, his grin fading as his eyes once more narrowed into daggers.

"Now, if Sir Damien did that, then it would make no sense for you to practically advertise your roots by rubbing elbows with boyars and dazzling children with tales of Romandan folklore," the netherseer pointed out, his words low and menacing.

"Admit it, imposter, you've lost. Now, you shall keep your end of the bargain."

Izlude gritted his teeth before giving his reply. "I'm sorry, milord, but I cannot."

The netherseer palmed the hilt of his own sword as his eyes glittered dangerously.

"No? Then perhaps this shall loosen your tongue!"

And without another word, Malak quickly tore his sword free of its scabbard. With the speed of a viper, he charged at Izlude, who quickly drew his own blade. Although he did not come here with the intention to fight, the other man gave him no choice. Izlude knew he could not let his true identity slip, and he would do anything to protect it.

Even if it meant fighting and possibly killing a man he'd once called friend.

As a former assassin, the new Duke of Favoham was skilled in the use of many weapons, even though his preferred weapon was a quarterstaff since it offered the advantage of reach and the ability to subdue a foe and take them alive if needed. His scimitar, for all its elegance, was very much a killing implement and, between its keen, razor thin edge and the far greater keenness of Malak's eye, it could easily pass through the miniscule gaps in Izlude's armor plates…and then into the flesh beneath.

Knowing this, and knowing that counterattacking would be much akin to trying to catch a wasp in a jar, Izlude held himself in a defensive posture. He batted aside Malak's weapon, but never struck back, all while never allowing his blade, or his arm, to move a hairsbreadth more than was necessary. When pressed, he gave ground, forcing Malak to stride and attack all at once.

"You fight well for a mere bodyguard!" Malak exclaimed, though seemingly out of vindication rather than concern, as Izlude successfully deflected one attack after another. Though the disguised knight blade's weapon could likely slice Malak in half, Izlude had the considerable disadvantage of wielding a heavier broadsword to his opponent's lighter scimitar.

Worse, Izlude was further encumbered by his armor, which was more ostentation than protection, whereas Malak's elegant silks, though billowy enough to catch the air as he moved, did little to rob him of the speed and agility that went hand-in-hand with his dark, former profession.

Malak fought not only with great speed and deadly skill, but also with a poise and grace more evocative of dancing than combat. Meant to daunt and distract the opponent, and Izlude was willing to bet it was quite effective at both, it did carry the risk that, in a drawn-out engagement, it would tire the user if they failed to kill the enemy fairly soon.

Izlude's best chance was to make sure time was his ally, rather than Malak's. But, as he was pointedly reminded when the netherseer's scimitar whispered past his leg and drew blood, this was easier said than done.

When they locked swords, Malak leaned closer to stare Izlude in the eye. His hazel orbs afire with deadly intent as he lowered his voice and snarled.

"Were you indeed Sir Damien, you would not have lasted five seconds against me!" he said, once more sounding vindicated rather than distressed. "Not only that, you are also intimately familiar with my fighting style. Only two men have witnessed it and lived to remember!"

Izlude said nothing, but he knew Malak was right. When they had first met in Riovanes a few weeks before Alma's arrival, and the infamous massacre, Malak had approached him and expressed his desire to test his own sword-fighting skills against one of the Templar's finest.

And Izlude, never one to turn down a challenge, was more than happy to oblige. In a few short sparring sessions, he became familiar with Malak's fighting style and, even though they had not intended to fight to the death, the other young man could very well have accidentally killed Izlude had the knight blade not been able to match his opponent's skill with the sword and counteract the netherseer's superior speed.

Knowing that his ceremonial armor was unlikely to hold up if Malak's blade slipped past his guard, Izlude did his best to keep that slender blade well away. He'd hoped that, with Malak's reliance on darting around and making sudden lunges, that an impregnable defense might tire or frustrate him into making a blunder. When such a window of opportunity appeared, Izlude might be able to end the duel quickly and, possibly, without taking his opponent's life. If he could somehow knock Malak's sword out of his hand, Izlude should be able to force the other young man to bargain his life against abandoning his pursuit of "Damien's" true identity.

But, just as the netherseer began to tire and the knight blade made ready for a blow that would take Malak's sword, perhaps along with the hand that held it, both men froze when they heard a sharp voice cut in.

"That's enough! Both of you, stop this at once, lest you draw the attention of the castle guards!"

Startled by the familiar voice, both Izlude and Malak lowered their swords to see the Duke of Lionel at the doorway of the stairs leading up from the castle hallway, his hand on the frame and panting slightly as if he had been running to catch up to them.

"My lord, I…" Izlude began, frantically wondering whether to claim that he and Malak were in the midst of a friendly bout or claim they'd been at odds with each other over the fair Duchess Catherine. He'd also been wondering why the stone had been strangely reticent to aid him when he noticed that both Ramza and Malak were staring not at the Romandan knight who'd drawn steel against an Ivalician duke, but at the ground before him in absolute, slack-jawed shock.

His stomach tying itself into a leaden knot, Izlude looked down as well and saw, to his horror, the Holy Stone lying on the stone floor, the pale light of the full moon revealing it like a jewel in a fogbank. Running his hands down the side of his leggings, Izlude felt the blood drain out of his cheeks when he discovered a tear where his pocket used to be. He recalled that one blow that grazed his leg and realized that Malak must have slashed open his pocket.

Reading the intention written large on the netherseer's face, Izlude quickly charged for the Holy Stone, desperate to get it before Malak did. And, while the former assassin had the speed of a viper, Izlude had the advantage of being closer to the stone and having husbanded his strength during the duel. He managed to reach it first, kicking Malak away before scooping it up in his hand and holding it close, his sword angled to keep the other two men at bay.

Malak grimaced with pain as he was sent sprawling onto his back in front of Ramza. Alarmed, the Duke of Lionel quickly helped his friend stand before both of them found themselves staring at Izlude, silent demands for answers on their faces. When Izlude saw Ramza palming the hilt of his own sword, he realized that his peril was now vastly greater. He now faced two skilled warriors who had emerged victorious against the Lucavi. Izlude also knew that Ramza Beoulve was the only other man, aside from himself, who had lasted long enough to familiarize himself with Malak's fighting style.

More to the point, Ramza had soundly beaten Izlude once already, and had doubtless grown more powerful since while fighting his way through the worst of humankind and demonkind alike.

Without giving him a chance to explain, Malak brought up his blade, clearly ready to attack Izlude again. This time, he seemed both fully prepared and eager to kill him, doubtless out of fear that he was a disguised Lucavi demon just like his late father, Vormav Tingel. But, Ramza, who knew all too well what it was like to be judged and condemned without evidence of guilt or even a chance to plead his case, snatched the other duke's wrist and held him back.

"Wait, Malak! Still your sword!"

The netherseer started at him incredulously. "What?! Are you mad, Drake? You saw what that man just dropped! It's the missing Holy Stone you've been looking for! What if he's one of them?!"

"I understand your concerns, but we mustn't be so hasty! He could be someone who just happened to pick up the stone; we should at least give him a chance to explain himself. You don't want the blood of an innocent man on your hands, do you, Malak?"

As frightened as he was, for Lucavi he'd seen and which he'd only imagined yet haunted his nightmares, Malak knew Ramza was right. He didn't want to repeat the mistake he'd made during the war when he'd believed the false claims of his adoptive father and the Church of Glabados, saying that Ramza Beoulve posed a dire threat to all of Ivalice. Having not yet discovered the depths of Barrington's depravity against his sister, Malak had accepted this false claim without seeing any evidence of it for himself.

Forcing himself to calm down, Malak lowered his sword. "Very well, I'll trust your judgement, Drake," he said before turning to Izlude. "You will identify yourself to us, sir. And, don't bother with subterfuge. If your loss at our games of wits and words didn't convince me that you're not the real Damien Mitchell, your skill with the blade certainly did. One more lie, and we will be forced to eliminate you for the protection of this great country and her people."

Just moments before, Izlude Tingel would have done anything to protect his true identity. He had crafted a tale most elaborate and detailed of who Damien Mitchell was, and had even added both his own accomplishments to this young history and built a circle of friends who regarded him with affection and admiration. Knowing he could never be Izlude Tingel again – not publicly, at least – he had accepted that Damien Mitchell would be a second identity that he would have to live with while the name he'd been born to would likely be known only to himself and Alma. But, the revelation that he carried the Holy Stone changed everything, and he knew he now had no choice but to oblige the two men before him...

…assuming, of course, that he could do so.

Many a time he had pondered whether he would wear the face of Damien Mitchell until his second and final death, and he still had no answer. He had no idea how to bend the stone to his will, and genuinely feared for his soul if he tried. And, even if the stone could undo its alterations to his face and voice, Ramza had no reason to consider Izlude Tingel to be a friend. After all, by abducting Alma, he'd unwittingly gotten her neck deep into the Lucavi's machinations to enslave humanity…

…and, that was discounting Ramza's reaction when he found out what else Izlude had gotten Alma into.

Still, if he could have his true face and true voice back, for but a few minutes, then maybe he could plead his case.

The rest would be in God's hands.

Tightening his hold on the stone, Izlude silently prayed that the illusion be dispelled, if only for a moment, so that Ramza and Malak could see the man behind the mask.

In answer to his plea, the Holy Stone once more became warm in his hand and glowed brilliantly. Izlude found himself blinking away stars for a moment, but his vision cleared in plenty of time for him to see that his prayer had been answered. He caught sight of his reflection in one of his gauntlets and, though distorted slightly, he could see his jet-black hair becoming its original chestnut brown while steel-gray eyes became green. He then slipped off the gauntlet to see the pale skin beneath taking on a bronzed tan until it was once more the sun kissed flesh of one accustomed to long hours of training and waging battle beneath cloudless skies.

Izlude regarded his tanned skin and the distorted reflection of his true face in the gauntlet as if both were dear friends he'd long thought dead…an analogy, he realized, which wasn't too far from the truth. And, his now green eyes misted as he soon learned that their reunion would be both temporary and brief.

The stone suddenly gave him a strong mental impression of his mother, reading to him and Meliadoul from a book of fairy tales when both were small enough to sit upon her knee. Her soft, loving voice imparted the quote "At the stroke of twelve, the spell will be broken. And, everything will be as it was before".

Judging by the height of the moon, that was but minutes away.

As Izlude's appearance changed before Ramza and Malak's eyes, they were no less amazed.

"I don't believe it…" Ramza breathed, his voice hoarse with wonderment. "Izlude Tingel."

"Do my eyes deceive me, or is it the son of Vormav who now stands before me?" Malak asked as he stared wide-eyed at Izlude. Even though he now beheld Izlude's true form, he still had a hard time believing it.

"It is not an illusion," the knight blade said calmly, his true voice sounding strange and yet wonderful to his ear. "I am indeed Izlude Tingel, brought back from the dead by the power of the Holy Stone…just as you were, Lord Malak Galthana."

"But how?" Ramza asked. "Why did the stone choose you?"

Izlude shook his head. "I don't know. When I was at death's door, I heard a voice speak to me. It said 'Return to the ones with the right mind'."

Upon hearing Izlude's answer, both Ramza and Malak found themselves staring at the knight blade in disbelief. Especially Malak, for the stone which revived him had said those exact same words.

"Go on…," he said.

Relieved that the other two men were willing to listen instead of hacking him to pieces, Izlude did his best to explain. He told them of his sojourn in the realm of the deceased, encountering the phantoms of his mother and father, his being sent back to the realm of the living, of discovering the corpse of Damien Mitchell and swapping armor with the dead man, his following Ramza's band until nearly drowning at Fort Besselat, his learning of Alma's pseudonym, of how he'd found the Moonsharks' trove and saved the jobs of hundreds of honest folk while doing so, and ultimately his coming to Lesalia in search of Alma.

"You did all of that, came all the way here, for my sister?" Ramza asked, flabbergasted.

It simply sounded too good to be true. Alma had said she'd loved Izlude – so much so, in fact, that his memory left her unable to move on with her life – and that Izlude had given his life to save Alma's told him the feeling had been mutual. Still, the tale he'd heard boggled the mind…and offered him a heaven-sent lifeline from the most immediate of his predicaments. If the previously raven-haired man standing before him was indeed Izlude Tingel, returned from the dead, then all of his problems, at least those regarding Alma, would be solved.

He'd still need to make sure Delita did not stray back to the proverbial brink and find some way to help repair his friend's marriage, but at least one predicament might well be behind him.

The Beoulve girl, still grieving the death of her first love and the father of her unborn child, had seemed all but deaf to his pleas that she choose a husband quickly enough that her suitor might think the child to be his own handiwork, and Ramza had despaired that she'd soon be showing too much for the ruse to work. When she'd shown an interest in "Damien Mitchell", only to suddenly run away from him, it had felt like a cruel joke played by some divine prankster. But now, with Alma's lost love, with the real father of her unborn child, alive and newly returned, he finally had a way to ensure that his sister and unborn niece or nephew had a proper, loving family.

"Yes, Lord Drake…," Izlude answered, shaking Ramza from his reverie. "As I said, I know who you and your sister really are. And, every breath of my second life has been dedicated to winning her hand and giving her the life and marriage I promised her so long ago in Riovanes. You know I speak true, my lords, for you both have witnessed what miracles the Holy Stones can perform as well as their evils."

"I can't deny that…," Malak admitted, tapping at the silk which covered the bullet wound that had ended his first life. "The Holy Stone is the reason I was sent back to the realm of the living. When I realized how blind I'd been to Barrington's evil, my greatest desire at the time was to protect my twin sister, Rafa. But, there is one thing I wish to confirm: if you are standing before me now, then it must be the real Sir Damien who lies in your grave at the Great Templar Cemetery in Murond, correct?"

"I believe so," Izlude answered. "As I said, when I was revived, I switched armor and garb with the true Sir Damien. I knew the Lucavi who wore my father's face would seek my death again if he knew I was still amongst the living. I needed to both preserve the illusion of my death and a disguise so I could travel the land freely while I searched for Alma. I chose Sir Damien because he was about my size and his dog tag indicated that he had no family who might realize the truth…nor anyone to mourn him, aside from myself. It would not surprise me if he was buried in my place. Not that it matters now. Even if I can never again walk the streets and proudly declare myself a son of the Tingel family, I still wish to be with the woman I love."

Ramza released a sigh of relief. "This sounds almost too good to be true…"

"I'll say…," Malak agreed.

Glad that both Ramza and Malak believed him, Izlude continued. "Now that you know, please allow me to continue my search for Duchess Catherine. We had…some sort of misunderstanding at the ball, and I must try and make it right, lest I lose my chance to win her heart."

Izlude was about to leave when he heard Ramza call out to him once more. "Wait, Izlude, about that! There is something about Alma that I think you should know…"

The knight blade, struck by the urgency in Ramza's voice, paused as he regarded the red-headed duke curiously. "What is it?"

Ramza took a deep breath before answering. "My sister… she is with child…yours to be exact."

Had a dozen time mages all cast meteor spells on the very spot he now stood, Izlude could not have been more thunderstruck. As soon as he heard the words, barely able to gather in their full meaning, his eyes widened and he snatched at one of the crenellations, lest his legs buckle from the shock.

"A…are you sure?" he sputtered as his mind tried to dissect what he had just heard.

Although Izlude couldn't see it with his eyes, now brimming with fresh tears, he sensed Ramza's expression contorting with exasperation.

"Yes, of course I'm sure!" he blurted, a bit childishly. "Why would I lie?"

Izlude's breath caught in his throat and the moisture blurred world seemed to tip and tilt before his eyes. All of the sudden, the portrait he'd purchased at Claudio's shop sprang to mind, the image hitting him with such mental force that his head snapped back from the blow.

He remembered how her hair had seemed longer and lusher, her skin rosier, and her cheeks, breasts, and stomach…fuller. At the time, he'd thought it part of concerted effort to disguise herself, but now, seen in a different light, the realization was overwhelming. It bathed him in the warmth of ecstasy, which sizzled with the crackle of wonderment, while globes of anticipation drifted on breezes of hope only to burst into cascades of happiness that rained down upon him like falling stars.

As he would later put it, befuddling all within earshot as he did so, it was like being struck by a thundaja spell…but, in a good way.

It was, he was quite certain, the happiest moment since the dawn of creation.

Uncertain whether to laugh or cry, and somehow ending up doing both at once, he had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from crying in delight.

"I don't believe this!" he gasped almost to himself, giddiness threatening to overwhelm his reserve. "Alma is with child! I'm going to be a father!"

It was then he realized that the feeling he'd had, of being kicked through his armor when he danced with Alma, wasn't a figment of his imagination. It was…

Their child.

"You seriously didn't notice?" Malak spoke up, startling both men. "You had to have seen that Alma's new hair wasn't the only thing different about her. What, did you think she was just getting fat? I can understand you thinking that about Agrias while you were shadowing us, but-"

"Don't!" Ramza blurted out, sounding almost terrified. "She still throws things if you mention that!"

"Well, sort of…," Izlude admitted, and promptly swore both men to secrecy. "I had the stone's power to change my appearance, and even my voice, but Alma had to make do with less. When I saw how different she looked, I thought she was doing what she could to disguise herself. Red dye to change her hair color, rubbing oils into her scalp to make her hair longer and lusher, makeup to give her a rosier complexion, and eating more often to get a fuller figure. With how you must be used to traveling in disguise during and after the war, I figured that was one of your clever plans."

"Clever? Me?" Ramza blurted, pointing to himself in disbelief.

"Him?" Malak said, pointing to the duke with his thumb and sounding similarly bewildered.

"Actually, that's a good point," Izlude replied teasingly.

"Hey!" the Duke of Lionel shouted, his petulant tone of voice betraying just how young he truly was.

Despite the levity of their words, all three men soon sobered as they recalled just what had brought on the hilarity. Alma was with child. Izlude's child.

And, though getting her with child before they had wed, and with her believing him dead, was still more that he had to make up to her, this only spurred him to rise to the challenge. He would be the man, and the husband, that Alma believed he could be when she had shared with him the secret of the Lucavi and accepted his ring.

And, he would be the father his child needed as well.

"I… I don't know what to say!" he admitted "My mind is so awhirl I can barely think. What should I do now?"

"Well, for starters, I think it's better if you wait until tomorrow to see my sister again," Ramza answered, hoping that his infamous luck might hold just once more. "But, I also think it best that you do not reveal yourself to her right away. The shock might cause her to miscarry, if you know what I mean."

Izlude's eyebrows shot clear into his hairline while, inwardly, realization rang through his skull like the report of one of Mustadio's infamous guns. Could that have been the true cause of the stone's odd behavior? Had it somehow gleaned the true reason for Alma's new appearance, anticipated that Malak and Ramza would follow him, and then turned Izlude in circles so they'd catch up to him so he could learn this secret?

Has the stone not only deduced that Alma was with child, but then staged all this to prevent Izlude from losing his child by unwittingly causing Alma to miscarry?

Though it certainly seemed plausible, and he'd seen the stone perform greater feats for both weal and woe, the knight blade could only shake his head in amazement.

He wasn't too surprised, however, when the Holy Stone suddenly gave him a strong mental impression of Meliadoul, smiling her flirtatious swashbuckler's smile, and coyly reminding him that he ought to have more faith in those who look out for him.

"Then, what should I do?" Izlude asked as he dried his eyes and faced the two men once more.

Interestingly, the question seemed to befuddle them. After exchanging blank stares, both turned to face Izlude once more, obvious uncertainty crossing their features.

"Well, don't look at me," Ramza said, boyish nervousness seeping into his tone. "Agrias and I are very happy together, but my "courtship" of her was wrong-headed from the start."

"I can believe it," Izlude opined, and then hastily added "You being happy together, I mean. Rachel is a beautiful child. Malak, I don't suppose you have any suggestions?"

"Well, for starters, I recommend you do what you did when you two first met at Riovanes. Let her get to know you…again," Malak advised. "In short, you would have to get the duchess accept you as you are now before you can tell her the truth. And, when the time is right, maybe the stone will let her see your real face."

As he said this, the netherseer felt a bit strange for attempting to give someone else love advice when his own experience in the field was a bit lacking. But, since he was indebted to Ramza for saving him and Rafa, Malak felt obligated to repay this debt of honor by doing what he could to bring Izlude and Alma back together.

"I see…," Izlude said, his elation wavering a bit at the knowledge that his reunion with Alma would see yet another delay. "I was about to continue my search for Alma. But, if you think it best to wait until tomorrow night, I shall take your advice and do my best to be patient."

"Good, and… well, I can understand if you're frustrated after what we had to tell you," Ramza said. "I know what it's like, being worried about someone you love but not being able to do anything about it for the moment. However, I think you won't have much longer to wait. I watched you and Alma this evening, and it looks like you two at least got off to a good start. I can tell my sister has taken an interest in you, and that you're growing on Manon and Charlotte too. So, I'll let her know that you will return tomorrow. For now, it's best to leave her be. Give her some time to gather her wits, be there for her tomorrow, and don't let on that you know the real reason she ran off. Do what we suggest, and I think you'll be fine."

Although disappointed that he could not see Alma again tonight, Izlude had to agree. "Very well. I shall return tomorrow then," he said, more determined than resigned. "There is one thing I must know, however. I know you and King Delita are old friends, and that he went to a lot of trouble to arrange the balls. Is he…aware of the situation?"

"He is, and so is Queen Ovelia."

That certainly went a long way towards explaining why Delita had invested so much time and money into these balls. However, and not for the first time, the knight blade found himself pondering the new king's motives. Though Ramza still seemed to regard Delita as a friend in spite of all the reprehensible things he'd done, not the least of which being how he was party to the tarring of Ramza's name, Izlude could not help but wonder if more than reciprocated feelings might be at work. Delita was a cunning and manipulative man, and had been charged by the Church to help bring down the old order of Ivalice because he could work his way into the good graces of many an unsuspecting person before slipping the knife between their ribs.

It was doubtful that he was keen to betray Ramza, since passing him off as a cousin and naming him Duke of Lionel might cause any suspicions from the Church to reflect badly on Delita as well. However, it was quite likely that the Duke of Lionel was aware of many of the new king's less-than-angelic deeds, perhaps enough that he could topple Delita's young reign. Though it seemed doubtful that Ramza would do so, if not out of faith in his friend then out of obligation to see that Ivalice was not split in twain over the throne again, perhaps the new king wasn't taking any chances.

Ramza was already deep in Delita's debt for his new name, his new home, and his new title. Add in seeing that Alma found a husband and was not stigmatized as an unwed mother, and the leverage with which the new king could secure Ramza's silence seemed quite complete.

That was possible; in fact, Izlude dared say it was likely. But, his love and their child came first regardless.

"Will you please let the king know about me?" Izlude asked. "As much as you think it's wise to tell him, anyway, so that he does not bar me from entering like the other suitors who were turned away earlier this evening?"

"I will…," Ramza replied, steely determination fortifying his words. "I promise."

"Thank you, my lord. You have my gratitude."

Ramza shook his head as he offered the knight blade his hand.

"No, Sir Izlude," the Duke of Lionel intoned, his words warbling as though he struggled to keep his composure. "You have mine. More than you can ever imagine."

For a moment, Izlude looked at Ramza in confusion. Izlude had tried to kill Ramza in Orbonne and had abducted Alma, unwittingly spiriting her into the claws of the Lucavi. And, on top of all that, he had slept with her before their promised marriage and gotten her with child. Ramza was surely aware of all this, and yet there was no reproach in his eyes nor any threats of violence for Izlude having allowed passion to overcome propriety. Granted, Ramza had little cause to talk since he'd gotten Agrias pregnant well before they'd wed, but the knight blade knew there was more to it than that and, soon enough, understanding dawned on him.

More than wanting his sister to be with the man she loved and the real father of her unborn child, Ramza had forgiven Izlude, just as surely as he'd forgiven Malak and Meliadoul, and perhaps even Delita, for how they had wronged him in the past.

Smiling, he accepted the disguised Beoulve's proffered hand.

"Likewise," he said. "Thank you. And, not just for that, but also for saving Meliadoul's life when she tried to take yours."

Ramza blushed a bit, both at the praise and the reminder, and then blushed considerably more deeply when Izlude pulled him into a rough hug. As the two men drew apart, Izlude spied his tanned hand turning pale once more and, realizing what was to come, gazed into his gauntlet again, savoring the reflection of the man behind the mask as the bells tolled midnight and the illusion returned.

It was quite likely, Izlude realized, that this would be the last time he'd see his real face.

Now, that likelihood cut deeper than it ever had before as the face of Damien Mitchell was reassembled piece by piece before his very eyes.

"Well, at least nothing's turned into a pumpkin," he choked out, trying valiantly to inject some levity into the somber moment.

"What?" Ramza asked, perplexed.

"Nothing important," Izlude said hurriedly.

"Now, in regards to the Holy Stone…," Malak spoke up after clearing his throat to catch Ramza and Izlude's attention.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that…," the knight blade said as he opened his other hand to reveal the glowing stone.

"What shall we do about that?" Malak asked Ramza before returning his gaze to the object which had haunted the Duke of Lionel's nightmares for months before his arrival in Lesalia.

Ramza sighed as he opened his own hand and held it out to the knight blade.

"Izlude… I really hate to have to ask, but would you be willing to give me the Holy Stone you possess? I know it brought you back from the dead, as well as guided you to Lesalia, but it is also far too dangerous for any human to possess. As one of those who vanquished the Lucavi, it is now my duty to safeguard the Holy Stones. I'm not saying that I think it will corrupt you, but I would very much prefer not to take any chances."

As he said this, Ramza gave Izlude a pleading look. This wasn't like the time they had fought in the library of Orbonne Monastery, when they had stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, each demanding the other relinquish his Holy Stone. This time, Ramza was actually begging for Izlude to give him his stone voluntarily for he did not wish to fight him a second time and take it by force.

Especially since he now knew that the other man was his sister's beloved as well as the father of her child, his own niece or nephew.

Izlude, on the other hand, hesitated to hand over his Holy Stone. One reason being that it had helped him to maintain his disguise and protected him from danger, as well as brought him to Lesalia safely. Would he be able to complete his long journey, or even maintain his disguise, without it? But at the same time, he also wanted Ramza and Malak to trust him.

Despite his self-deprecating nature, Izlude knew Ramza to be a clever man. He'd had to be in order to survive pursuit by church, state, and demonkind alike. Therefore, it stood to reason that the Duke of Lionel had a way to protect the Holy Stones from those who could be corrupted by their demonic influence. And, since Izlude had no inkling of just what power had disguised his face and voice, he had no proof that handing over the stone would unmask him.

And so, hoping that his decision was the right one, Izlude dropped the shining stone into the Duke of Lionel's open palm.

As soon as the stone touched Ramza's skin, it suddenly glowed so brightly that all three men had to cover their eyes. An instant later, the young duke gasped in pain and was forced to drop it.

Alarmed, Malak asked: "What's wrong, my lord?"

"The stone!" Ramza gasped, examining his hand to find the skin had taken on a deep red tinge. "I couldn't touch it! It was so hot!"

"What do you mean? It felt just fine when I was holding it," Izlude asked, puzzled as he picked up the stone.

The moment his hand drew near, the furious glow winked out and it rested inoffensively in his palm, as cool as the common crystal that it resembled.

"Here, try giving it to me instead" Malak suggested as he opened his own hand and held it out to Izlude.

The knight blade was puzzled at the other duke's request, but obeyed. Unfortunately, he fared no better than Ramza for the stone once more glowed furiously, forcing Malak to drop it. So hotly it burned that the flesh of his hand blistered under the heat.

"Ouch!" Malak gasped as he massaged his palm with his other hand.

"What can this possibly mean?" Ramza demanded.

"I don't really know, but I think it means that the stone itself is not yet ready to change ownership," Izlude answered dryly as he once more picked up the Holy Stone.

Unlike with Ramza and Malak, he suffered no ill effects and the stone felt only mildly cool in his hand.

"My lords, I don't know why the stone does what it does," he continued. "And, believe me, I've been banging my head against the wall for quite a while trying it figure it out. But, I believe it wishes to stay with me for at least a bit longer. I would give it to either of you if I could. But fear not, you can trust me to safeguard it as I have done from the moment it revived me. I have not let it out of my sight, nor shall I ever."

"I suppose we have no choice…," Ramza said grimly. Although Izlude was willing to give him the stone, there was nothing the knight blade could do if the stone itself was not yet willing to accept Ramza as its new owner. "Very well, Izlude. I'll trust you with it. Just as I trust you with my sister. Please don't disappoint me."

"I won't…," Izlude assured him as he pocketed the stone and sheathed his blade. "You have my word. I must leave you both for now, my lords. Hopefully, we shall meet again tomorrow night."

"Yes… we'll meet again. Until then, have a good night," Malak said as he sheathed his own sword at last, relieved that he was finally sure that the mysterious raven-haired knight meant the Duchess of Lionel no harm.

"Goodnight…and thank you, both of you, for believing in me."

"You're welcome, Izlude," Ramza said. "Good night."

With that, the three men parted company, with Ramza and Malak returning to their respective guest rooms and Izlude to the inn, each gently deflecting probing questions all the while.

Tonight had been a night of jarring discoveries and, whether from shock or wonderment or hope or trepidation, all three men would find that sleep proved quite elusive tonight.

SSSSSS

As it happened, Izlude, Ramza, and Malak were not the only ones who doubted they'd find much rest that evening.

In the opulent guest room of Lesalia Castle into which she'd fled after the ball, Alma sat before her vanity, regarding her reflection in morose silence. She had managed to return to her room without incident after fleeing from Sir Damien, though the memory of his heartfelt pleas for her to wait and the strange yet palpable desperation in his voice had stung worse than she would've believed possible.

Had he been so taken by her that the abrupt exit had done more than merely bruise a young man's ego?

She hadn't given much thought to how her reticence might've done likewise to her other would-be suitors, for the only thought that had crossed her mind while with them was how none could fill the void Izlude had left in her heart.

Yet, with Sir Damien, who had been so eerily reminiscent of her lost love, it had been different. Why this had been, she still was not sure. But, in another eerie correlation to what she'd felt with Izlude, there'd been something she could not define. It might've been the simple curiosity that arose when faced with a handsome stranger, or the girlish thrill at meeting a charming man.

Or, maybe it was the faint and irrational, and yet irresistible, spark of hope that the key to regaining her happiness was a blind, foolish gamble, much akin to that she'd taken in trying to seduce Izlude to gain her freedom…and ended gaining his love as well.

She supposed it hardly mattered. He'd sounded genuinely hurt by her abrupt exit, and likely wouldn't be keen to continue courting her after such a display.

Manon and Charlotte had been quick to chase after her, alarmed at what had happened and, in Manon's case, eager to challenge whomever was responsible to knightly combat.

When he'd gotten his answer, however, his zeal became despondence. Apparently, while Alma had been nearly blinded by her grief, Manon and Charlotte had grown to like Sir Damien, and both seemed genuinely sad that he'd likely not be joining their strange family.

For Alma, who'd come to care for Manon and Charlotte as though they were her own, the sad dejection on their faces had stung worse than a whole phalanx of Lesalian gossips spinning ever more incendiary yarns about her actions.

Her eyes misting, she lowered her head onto the vanity and allowed the burgeoning tears free rein. Not just for how she felt she'd failed the two children who were very nearly her unborn child's step-siblings, but for how much she missed Izlude and how she regretted pushing away the only man who'd likely be able to fill the void he'd left in her heart.

As though sensing her despair, the baby stirred, jolting Alma from her weeping.

"It's alright," she said, gently patting her now sizable belly and hoping her words sounded more convincing than they felt. "I'll find a way to make this right. I will. I must."

Before she could give much thought to just how she'd accomplish that daunting task, she heard a knock at the door.

"Catherine, are you awake?" a familiar voice rang out. "It's me, Ovelia."

Alma, who had managed to change into her nightgown after pulling all the pins out of her hair and undoing her braids before sadness overtook her, regarded the bed for a moment. Realizing she'd likely spend much of the night staring at the ceiling if she tried to turn in now, she decided that the arrival of her best friend offered a better way to while away the wee hours.

After donning a robe, which just barely concealed her pregnancy, Alma quietly opened the door to find the queen. The Duchess of Lionel had been rather perplexed that the queen would be awake at this hour, and her confusion only deepened when she saw that Ovelia was alone and, more curious still, disguised. At some point following the ball, Ovelia had exchanged the elaborate gowns which marked her as the queen for those of a castle maid, her long blonde tresses tightly coiled and nearly invisible beneath a white bonnet. The use of colored lenses over each eye and cosmetics to make herself look older, both of which Ovelia removed as she stood on the other side of the door while holding a single candle in her hand, furthered the illusion.

Alma herself might've been fooled if she hadn't used similar tricks back in Orbonne, when the two idly pondered whether such disguises might allow them a day of adventure beyond the monastery's lonely walls.

Still, that the queen felt the need to move about in disguise while under her own roof, and in the middle of the night, caused grim presentiments to form in Alma's head.

She already had an impression that unhappiness festered beneath the surface of Ovelia and Delita's marriage, and now she feared it might be worse than she thought.

"Ovelia? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in bed?" Alma whispered as she stepped aside and made a gesture for the disguised queen to enter. It was well past midnight and the ball had been over for two hours now. The Beoulve girl was sure that the guests must have returned to wherever they were staying for the night and the only ones awake were likely to be the guards working the night shift or the servants who were still cleaning up the now empty ballroom.

As soon as she was inside, Ovelia turned to her friend. "It's alright, Delita is already asleep and I had no difficulty getting past the servants and castle guards dressed like this."

"Still, don't you think it's a bit unsafe for you to wander the castle by yourself, even in disguise, Ovelia?" Alma asked in concern, but Ovelia shook her head.

"You worry too much, Alma. I may not be a warrior like Agrias, but that doesn't mean I'm utterly helpless either," the young queen said with a wink as she pulled up her skirt to reveal a concealed dagger, resting in a small sheath strapped to her thigh. Alma blinked at the familiar weapon, swearing that she had seen it somewhere before.

"Say, isn't that...?"

"Yes," Ovelia answered, as though reading Alma's mind. "Agrias gave it to me when we met briefly in Zeltennia, just before the war's end. She knew she couldn't leave Drake's party to protect me, especially not since she was still carrying Rachel back then. So, she gave me this in hopes that I could protect myself in the meantime. And, I've been carrying it on me almost everywhere since. It may be a simple weapon but somehow, I feel much safer having it."

Alma blinked. From what she remembered of the brief time she had traveled together with Ramza's band to Orbonne Monastery, Agrias had always carried that same dagger as a back-up weapon in case, God forbid, she was to ever lose her sword in the middle of a battle. Yet, after leaving the Graveyard of Airships, she'd noticed that the belt sheath where Agrias normally kept it had been conspicuously empty.

She might've asked about that, had she not noticed that the belt which Agrias wore now encircled a much thicker figure, which the holy knight would sometimes glower at and instruct to stop squirming so much.

"I see...," Alma said, suddenly worried that she saw entirely too well. "And, have you had to use it so far?"

"Fortunately, no," Ovelia replied, though her tone wavered. "I will admit, I've been through a great deal since I was abducted from Orbonne. It's been quite some time since I've felt truly safe, and I haven't been able to pass a good night's sleep without keeping the dagger at my bedside, in case any assassin manages to bypass the guards."

Alma raised an eyebrow. Somehow, she got the feeling that Ovelia did not keep Agrias' dagger near at all times simply because she feared a politically motivated assassination.

Perhaps, instead, she feared any assassination against her would come from much, much closer to home?

"I'm glad...," she said, then hastily added "That you've never needed to use it, I mean. So, what can I do for you, Ovelia?"

"Actually, I came to ask you if you're alright, since you left the ball so abruptly," the queen answered, obvious concern in her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean to ask if that last suitor you danced with said or did something to offend you?"

"You mean that Romandan man, Damien Mitchell? No, of course not. I was fond him, but…"

Here, Alma paused, quickly cracking the door and glancing up and down the hall to make sure no one was within earshot before she continued.

"But, I panicked when my baby kicked," she continued, whispering. "When he asked what had happened, I was afraid he might realize I was pregnant."

"Oh...," Ovelia said, her expression becoming one of understanding. "He must be quite sensitive if he could feel your baby kick through his armor."

"Yes... when he asked what it was, I didn't know how to answer and couldn't risk him finding out the truth. So, the only thing I could think of was to leave."

"That's understandable, and I hope you'll forgive me for saying so but it's not very becoming to just walk out on someone seeking your hand, especially if he's someone you've taken an interest in," Ovelia pointed out.

Alma was startled. "I don't know what you mean, Ovelia."

The queen placed a hand on her friend's shoulder and gave her a playful grin.

"Don't you, Alma?" she asked coyly. "I can tell you like Sir Damien; he's the only one you've managed to look in the eye for more than five seconds, and I don't think it's just because of his exotic looks."

Alma blushed. "Well, that's because I thought he looked like my dead fiancé."

Seeing Ovelia's raised eyebrow, Alma went on.

"I'm not sure how to put it into words," she admitted. "But, he seemed so hauntingly similar to Izlude. His build and form, his posture and the way he carried himself. And, that smile! I could swear I was back in Riovanes Castle again, with him."

"Oh... was that all?" Ovelia asked, almost smugly. "Didn't you find Sir Damien himself the least bit intriguing?"

"I'd be lying if I said no," the Beoulve girl confessed. "Not long before you arrived, I was mulling over how I'd felt about him. And, it's not just how much he reminded me of Izlude. It's almost as though I felt how I did back then. Almost as though all that stood between me and happiness was the willingness to take a gamble."

Here, the Beoulve girl paused and heaved a melancholy sigh.

"What really struck me, though, was how…how hurt he seemed when I ran out on him," she went on. "I know most of these suitors want me for my looks, or my money, or for the prestige of marrying their way into the nobility. But, it seemed like Sir Damien was genuinely pained by what I did. That…I don't believe that happens to someone who would've come here as a social climber."

Again, Alma paused, her eyes misting once more. And, when she did continue, her words quavered.

"What you said earlier, about how my father found love again after losing his first wife? I can't help but wonder if I had that same chance and let it slip away. And, it's not just that either. Manon and Charlotte were here earlier, worried about what had happened. Manon was even keen to grab a sword from the armory and run through whoever had upset me. I told them the truth, since they already know about the baby, but I think I shouldn't have. It seems they'd already connected with Sir Damien, that they'd grown to like him. After I told them, they seemed so…so dejected."

The reminder of those young faces, marred by disappointment after she'd vowed to do everything she could to make them happy, caused salty rivulets to trace their way down her cheeks, and Alma had to wipe them away before she continued.

"I suppose it hardly matters, though. I doubt he'll be wanting to see me again after what happened."

Ovelia had listened to her friend's explanation quietly and, though the shifts in her expression were small, Alma could see them quite clearly. Was that a flicker of empathy, or envy, that she'd spotted? And, did it tie back to her grim presentiments about the state of the queen's marriage?

"Well, I would not despair if I were you," her old friend advised. "I can believe that he was hurt by what happened. But, from what I saw and heard, Sir Damien did try to find you after you left. He couldn't keep up with you, however, and had to cut short his search and return to wherever he's staying in town. But, I do know that he won't give up so easily. Before he left, he relayed a request that he be allowed to return tomorrow night."

"Are you serious?" Alma asked, unable to hide either her amazement or the shiver of hope that shot up her spine.

"I heard it from Drake's own mouth, and Delita has given his consent. So, he will be back tomorrow, and I really think you should give him another chance. Please, don't let this opportunity for happiness pass you by, Alma. You may not be so fortunate a third time and it won't be long before everyone can tell you're with child."

Alma was silent for a moment before she realized Ovelia was right. Her own happiness aside, she also had her baby to consider. If she was right, if Sir Damien did represent a second chance at love and was coming to care for Manon and Charlotte much like Alma herself did, then perhaps he did deserve a second chance.

Perhaps it was what Izlude would've wanted, had he foreseen that he wouldn't live to wed Alma or see their child.

"You're right, Ovelia. If he returns tomorrow, I will meet with Sir Damien again."

Ovelia smiled. "I'm glad. In a world like this, true happiness is hard to find and harder still to hold on to. I'd hate to see you let it pass you by. I should go now before Delita notices I'm gone."

The Beoulve girl raised a brow. "What? You mean Delita doesn't know you're here?"

"No, he was already asleep when I decided to see you and I saw no reason to wake him. Even married couples need time to themselves every now and then."

"I understand, Ovelia," Alma replied, and she feared she understood all too well.

Ovelia's earlier claims that she was "content" in her marriage to Delita had seemed, at best, hesitant and half-hearted. And now, Ovelia was skulking about her own castle, armed and in disguise, without her husband's knowledge. Then, there was the somberly worded, but non-committal, reply to the note which Alma had written her in the ancient pictographic language of the lost desert empires which they'd learned about in the monastery.

"He made us all pay," had been the oblique, but less-than-encouraging reply to Alma's missive.

Did Ovelia simply want the space that married couples sometimes craved? Or, did she want the sort of distance she would wish to keep from one who she feared meant her harm…or whom she feared she might harm despite wishing otherwise?

If Ovelia's earlier evasiveness was any indication, asking her directly would be pointless. At least, for the moment. Still, the Beoulve girl could see that the queen was far from "content", and that two people so dear to her heart were so unhappy in what she knew could be a joyous marriage.

She yet had faith that Ovelia loved Delita, and that Delita loved her in return…

…yet, if things were left to continue their current course, that might not be enough.

For how can love endure when trust becomes fear? How can a marriage thrive when faith between spouses becomes tainted with suspicion?

Still, loathe though she was to admit it, the Beoulve girl could not help her old friend. Not when making sure her baby had a father, before everyone knew the truth, was her foremost concern.

"Thank you for coming, Ovelia," she said, reluctant though she was to let it go at that. "Please be careful going back to your room; I'd hate to see you get caught up in an awkward situation should any of the guards or servants recognize you."

"You're welcome, Alma," Ovelia replied, taking care to whisper her old friend's true name as she reassembled her disguise. "And, don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

The queen then gave her friend a sisterly kiss on the cheek, which Alma returned.

"Goodnight, Alma," the queen said, almost sadly. "Rest well."

"You too, Ovelia," the Duchess of Lionel replied. "Sweet dreams."

Alas, both women parted knowing that a good night's sleep was unlikely. And that pleasant dreams would prove more elusive still.

SSSSSS

Though born into a noble family of considerable wealth and prestige, Meliadoul Tingel was set apart from her fellow highborn ladies in many, many ways…

…not all of which she considered pleasant.

Meliadoul arched and massaged her sore back as soon as she entered the Lesalia Castle Stables and dismounted Boco. After being in the saddle for the last two hours, her muscles ached and she was genuinely certain that she'd kill for a hot bath, as well as some rest, before getting dressed for the ball. Opening the saddlebag which contained her finery, and relieved that Boco's steady trot had kept it safe and unrumpled, she could not help a hint of displeasure at how this humble (to put it politely) journey contrasted with those of years gone by.

Once, in her youth when she accompanied her father to the castle to meet with the king in the name of the High Confessor, it had been in a spacious carriage with lavish adornments and well upholstered seats, pulled by a quartet of well-groomed chocobos and manned by a coachman, footman, and valet, all of whom performed their duties impeccably. Now, by contrast, Meliadoul took only a single mount, came alone, and carried her finery in a saddlebag.

Though her reasons were different, however, she was hardly alone in such a less-than-voluntary display of modesty.

Many of the nobles had practically bankrupted themselves financing the war, and were desperate enough to stave off destitution that they'd sworn fealty to a peasant-born king and sat across the negotiating table with commoners in order to find a way to ensure Ivalice's survival. By contrast, Meliadoul, sole survivor of the Tingel family, was quite wealthy. However, all of her family's servants, with the exception of Donovan, had long since left the service of the Tingel family after suffering the undeserved wrath of the demon who had possessed her father.

Although she could've hired more servants, this had been the last thing on her mind after learning that her father's very soul had been evicted by a demon, which had subsequently killed her brother.

Surviving the war had not been part of the hastily drawn, and rather nihilistic, plan, and she'd even sought death at her own hand when the Lucavi hadn't proven equal to the task of killing her. And then, much to her astonishment, the gun-slinging machinist, Mustadio, had stopped her.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, he'd tracked her down at her now empty estate, determined to help her move on with her life…in his own clumsy way.

The recollection of how he'd insisted on cooking her a meal, and somehow gotten a fair portion of it on the ceiling, teased a chuckle from her lips.

Still, despite his fumbling, there was no mistaking his sincerity…or that puppy dog expression when he'd asked her to accompany him to the ball after winning their impromptu target shooting contest.

Granted, the divine knight had attracted more than enough male attention to know when someone was vying for her affections and, still being a young man despite all he'd been through in his tumultuous life, Mustadio's interest could certainly be considered a crush on an attractive, older woman.

Yet, as she patted at the tynar rouge which he'd hastily re-gifted for her, all on the off-chance it might make her feel a bit better, she found a smile teasing at her lips. She even found herself thinking that, as embarrassing as it was to both be so soundly disproven in her assessment that his guns made his role in combat an easy one and for the gun's steep learning curve making her look as inept as a newly minted squire, that this was one wager she'd ultimately be glad to have lost.

For now, she had to pay up for losing their match. And, she also had to be sure that Boco, and Byblos who was concealing himself in the nearby woods, got back to Ramza. Both had served her well in tracking down and eliminating those lesser Lucavi who had fled once the Angel of Blood had been destroyed. But, with sightings of stray Ultima Demons and Apandas having dried up, she suspected that the chocobo wanted to return to his rightful master and the renegade demon be allowed to choose the next destination of his inscrutable journey.

It yet percolated at the back of her mind, the question of why Byblos had defected from the Lucavi to join Ramza's band in the deepest level of Midnight's Deep. And, since Byblos could apparently understand human speech but not speak it himself, she doubted that particular mystery would be solved anytime soon. Whatever the reason, and despite the nigh-overwhelming skepticism of his peers, Ramza had decided to give the renegade demon the chance to prove himself.

Meliadoul imagined he'd had to do the same fast talking when she and Malak joined as well.

Still, with a false charge of heresy hanging over his head, she didn't doubt that Ramza had had long, sad acquaintance with what it meant to be an outcast. And, as with quite a few of his seemingly idiotic decisions, his luck had held splendidly and Byblos had proven a great ally.

The why of it still eluded everyone, as did just what destination lay at the end of the journey Byblos had begun by deserting the Lucavi. But, after the help he'd given Meliadoul in hunting down the surviving minions of Altima, she decided she'd respect his right to choose just where to go next on his unknown sojourn.

He'd earned that much.

Upon hearing her entry into the royal stables, one of the stable boys approached Meliadoul and gave a bow.

"Good day, my lady. My name is Eric. May I see your invitation before taking your chocobo?" he asked politely.

"Of course," Meliadoul answered before pulling the card from her cloak.

As soon as he saw the name on Meliadoul's invitation, the boy's eyes widened.

"Goodness, my lady, are you the new Commander of the Knights Templar?" he blurted out, unable to hide his astonishment.

Meliadoul nodded. "Indeed I am. Or rather, what's left of them."

Although she did not elaborate further – and probably should not, as all of Ramza's band had vowed to keep the Lucavi's involvement a secret for the time being – the stable boy knew exactly what she meant…as much so as he could, at least. Though their role in triggering the War of the Lions in order to bring down the old order of Ivalice and replace it with a puppet monarchy dancing on the church's strings remained unknown to the people, it was no secret that, during the war, at least two-thirds of the order that had served the High Confessor of the Church of Glabados had been wiped out, with the majority having been either killed in battle or gone missing.

Among the missing and presumed dead was the previous Commander of the Templarte himself, Vormav Tingel. As for his son and second in command, Izlude, the young man was confirmed to have perished in the Riovanes Massacre and his remains had been buried at the Great Templar Cemetery in Murond.

Which left Vormav's only daughter, as well as only high-ranking Templar left in the order, as their new commander. But the position was hardly more than just a title now, since the newly ordained High Confessor Ryker had neither the wits nor the manipulativeness of his predecessor and would likely never command nearly as much influence in Ivalice as Marcel had before the War of the Lions.

Nonetheless, and out of respect for Meliadoul, who was also a grieving daughter and sister of two respectable knights, the stable boy refrained from agreeing or saying anything that might offend her or come off as unseemly to one in mourning.

"Regardless, I am honored to be of any service that I can offer you," he affirmed. "If I may ask, do you plan to stay overnight or go home after the ball? If you plan to stay, please let me know, so I can make sure your chocobo has enough feed to last until tomorrow."

"I plan to stay overnight, thank you," Meliadoul answered as she pulled down the hood of her green cloak and fished a fifty gil bill out of her purse to cover the boarding fee for her chocobo, as well as a twenty gil bill as tip for the stable boy.

Upon receiving the generous gratuity as well as the king's mandatory boarding fee, Eric's eyes brightened. Normally, he was lucky if he got five or even one gil as a tip, since most visitors to the castle were either stingy nobles who looked down on commoners like himself or nobles who saw the Lady of the Hour as a financial lifeline and could ill-afford large gratuities no matter how they felt about him.

"My lady, that's mighty generous of you!" he exclaimed, grinning uncontrollably.

Meliadoul smiled. "It's all right, you work hard so I think you deserve it."

Before the stable boy could respond, Meliadoul saw one of his fellows leading a chocobo to another stall. Oddly, she thought this particular mount looked familiar and before he could close the door, the divine knight called out to him.

"Excuse me," she said, causing the stable boy to jerk to a halt. "That chocobo..."

Turning to face her, the other stable boy said: "Yes, my lady? What about it?"

Curious, Meliadoul stepped closer until she saw the white-tear drop shaped pattern under the chocobo's right eye, which caused her own eyes to widen in recognition.

"Nelly? Is that you?" she asked, stupefied, as she gently placed her hand on the creature's head to pet it. Sure enough, the chocobo perked up both at her name and the familiar face, cooing happily. The stable boys, both of whom had earned a bruise or two trying to touch the feathered spitfire like that, looked on in astonishment.

"Wow, it looks like she's taken a liking to you pretty fast, my lady," Eric said, amazed. "Jeff and I have had quite a time with this hot-blooded creature. I am wondering one thing, though. How did you know her name?"

Instead of answering the question, Meliadoul gave one of her own. "Who does this chocobo belong to?"

"As I recall, she belongs to one of the men seeking the hand of the Duchess of Lionel," Nelly's handler, Jeff, answered. "His name is Damien Mitchell, a Favoham knight who was formally in the service of the late Duke Gerrith Barrington."

"Damien Mitchell? The name doesn't ring a bell. Where might I find this Sir Damien?" Meliadoul demanded, suspicion curdling in her gut.

"Well, you just missed him; he left his chocobo here and went into the castle a few minutes before you arrived, my lady. But, Sir Damien shouldn't be too hard to spot. He's clad in the armor of one of Favoham's Wyvern Knights and has the raven hair and gray eyes of the native Romandans. There was a story in the Times about some derring-do he did in Gollund, and it mentioned that his grandparents were Romandan immigrants."

"I see... well, I should be on my way then. I have a few questions for Sir Damien. If you will excuse me..."

Without waiting for either of the stable boys to respond, Meliadoul Tingel left the stables and made her way into the castle. The way the other chocobo reacted to her told the divine knight that it was indeed the same chocobo that she had gifted as a chick to her younger brother for his tenth birthday.

It was the custom amongst knightly families that those children who would grow up to bear swords and wear armor be tasked with raising their own mount in order to learn the diligence and responsibility that is as much a part of being a knight as chivalry and swordsmanship. Meliadoul had watched Nelly grow up just as she'd watched her younger brother grow as well, and tended to and ridden Nelly often herself to recognize her brother's mount with but a glance.

That Nelly was here, and in the possession of this Damien Mitchell, was most peculiar as, to her knowledge, Nelly did not allow anyone other than Izlude or Meliadoul herself to ride her.

Whoever this Damien Mitchell was, he had better be able to explain why he had Nelly in his possession. And, if Meliadoul did not like his answer, it would not go well for him…

SSSSSS

"Lady Catherine, are you alright? You seem a bit uneasy tonight."

Rafa's point was underscored when she had to repeat herself, twice, to get Alma's attention. Jolted from her reverie, Alma turned to Rafa, who had approached to offer her a pastry from the buffet, obvious concern in her hazel eyes.

Though the former members of Ramza's band knew the importance of secrecy, it had been necessary to tell at least a few of them that Alma was with child. Rafa had been one such person, especially since she'd come to regard Alma as a friend since the final battle at the Graveyard of Airships.

The Duchess of Favoham, much like the Duchess of Lionel, was well acquainted with how it felt to lose those she loved, and for the anguish of captivity to follow on the heels of that pain. She knew also that a woman's heart could suffer its own unique wounds, which few men could decipher and fewer still could mend.

Perhaps, Rafa thought as Alma ate the pastry, as much to nourish her growing baby as herself, even if none of the men on this stage could take away that pain, they might blunt it and allow Alma to move on with her life.

Tonight was the third and final night of the ball. As with the first two nights, Alma had danced with those suitors who were permitted entry into the castle and ballroom. Due to the sheer number of men who had come to Lesalia to seek her hand, not to mention the ever-rising cost of these galas, each suitor was allowed only one dance with the duchess, and for only two or three minutes each.

Although Alma had done much better in not seeming so distant with her suitors, keeping eye contact and making polite conversation, she could not help her thoughts wandering to the raven-haired, gray-eyed knight she had met the prior evening. And, as bizarre as it would've sounded not twenty-four hours beforehand, the Beoulve girl actually found herself disappointed that he was nowhere in sight.

For a moment, Alma actually worried that, after a night mulling over her abrupt exit from their dance, perhaps Damien had reconsidered his promise to come back tonight.

Or, maybe he realized she was pregnant and now wanted nothing to do with her.

Hoping that wasn't the case, Alma quickly wiped her mouth and hands on her kerchief and nodded her thanks to Rafa, who had chosen to wear a light sky-blue gown with semi-transparent skirts that offered a tantalizing view of her shapely legs.

"I'm sorry, Lady Rafa," Alma said. "And, thank you for the pastry. It's just that I'm a little disappointed that I don't see Sir Damien Mitchell anywhere tonight."

"Do you mean that Romandan knight from yesterday?" Rafa asked, clear interest in her tone "From what I can see, he seemed to like you a lot, and I'm sure it would take more than a hasty exit to scare him away. Remember, he did ask Drake to relay his request that he be allowed to return tonight. You said so yourself."

"And, suppose he slept on it and then changed his mind when he woke up this morning?"

"Not likely. You might've been too busy to read about him in the Times, but I did. And, if he carved his way through a horde of undead bandits just so he could have the money for his ensemble, then I doubt such a man would give up so easily."

In truth, the Beoulve girl had read that story, if only to pass what otherwise might've been a night spent staring at the ceiling and/or crying into her pillow. At the time, when she'd been deep in the renewed throes of heartbreak, she'd bitterly wondered why Damien had lived through such a nigh-suicidal act of gallantry while Izlude had not. But, once she'd calmed herself, she'd discovered a twinge of admiration for the brave deed. Apparently, in wiping out the ghosts, he had also saved the jobs of hundreds of people, as well as the many thousands whose lives would benefit from the gems mined there being sold to finance the rebuilding of Ivalice.

Had Izlude lived, he might've been impressed. Maybe he would've even cracked a joke about having been beaten to the punch.

"I think he'll be back tonight, he might just be a little late," Rafa offered reassuringly. "After all, he was the last suitor to arrive and sign in yesterday. Or at least the last one King Delita permitted into the castle, since there were so many seeking your hand."

As she said this, the Duchess of Favoham's lips curved into a playful smile. This was something she had started to do a little more often after she had reconciled with her twin brother and when they were finally freed from their adoptive father's servitude upon his death.

The pain of those days, when the man she'd regarded as a father had shown his true colors and visited his depravity upon her behind closed doors, was still there. Maybe it always would be, but the days when she quailed at the sight of even the gentlest of men were behind her and the nightmares were growing fewer.

She was not "well", nor even "okay", but each day was taking her slowly but surely in the right direction.

"Do you really think so, Lady Rafa?" Alma asked, pointedly reminding the Duchess of Favoham that Alma's road to recovery had more steps before her than behind.

"Do not worry about that. If there's one thing I've learned about men, it is that they are not easily deterred when a woman captures their fancy. Or their heart for that matter," the other duchess assured with a teasing smile as she stole a quick glance over Alma's shoulder to see Malak dancing with Lavian, whom she knew he fancied since they met while traveling together in Ramza's party.

It had been quite some time since Rafa had seen her twin brother smile like that.

Reasons to smile had been rare for a street waif, picking through refuse and corpse piles for even a morsel of food. And, after the harsh training for a career as an assassin, and the harsher realities of that dark trade, cause to smile became rarer still.

And, that was discounting the deep self-recrimination her brother had fallen into over how his blind loyalty to the man who'd fished him out of the gutter had left Rafa alone and unprotected when Barrington had violated her behind Malak's back.

It had taken Lavian delivering a few kicks to Malak's backside, several of which quite literal, to get him to beg the forgiveness he felt he'd never deserve. By then, Lavian had also become good friends with Rafa, and the Duchess of Favoham looked forward to welcoming the Lionsguard knight into their family.

She was pointedly reminded of what might happen not long after when she caught sight of Manon and Charlotte.

The pair had been in the midst of a clumsy, but endearing, attempt to follow the waltzes around them. They'd only fallen down twice – a new personal best, according to Alma – and had adjourned to the buffet table. Manon seemed to be making an almost comical effort to keep well away from the wine being served while several people who'd gotten between Charlotte and the desserts had to leap out of her path.

Rafa had heard Alma clearly tell Charlotte to only have one slice of cake. So, when the young girl took three instead, Rafa could practically hear Alma's eyes rolling.

"What's it like?" the Duchess of Favoham asked, her tone distant but happy. "Being like a mother to those two?"

"I'd…be hesitant to call myself their mother," Alma said shyly. God knows I've made some terrible mistakes so far."

"What parent hasn't? Besides, I can see they think the world of you. So, what is it like?"

It took Alma some time to form the words to answer and, when she did, she might've been called rambling by some. Still, she spoke of how looking at Manon and Charlotte gave her a picture of what Izlude and she might've been if they'd met sooner or lived to have more children, of how her heart ached at the suffering which had so characterized their young lives, and how she was gladdened upon seeing that they were reclaiming the happy childhood they'd lost when whatever ill wind of fate had blown them toward the now defunct Lionel workhouses. Well before the Duchess of Lionel had stopped, blushing at how verbose and gushing she must've sounded, a very different sort of smile had begun to tug at the corners of Rafa's lips.

"Perhaps someday," she said, almost to herself.

Alma's eyebrows rose at those words. The Duchess of Favoham didn't notice, however, as her gaze had caught that of a member of the group which called itself "Balbanes' Cubs". This one, if Rafa remembered from what she'd overheard from his own ill-fated overture to Alma, had been a doctor who'd made his fortune by covertly providing medical aid to the ill during the war and then founding a thriving practice once the battlefields had fallen silent. Like the other Cubs, his actions, had they been discovered by either of the warring dukes, might've seen him sent to the gallows.

In addition to his obvious intellect and bravery, he was also quite handsome. And, upon noticing Rafa's interest, he signaled that it was mutual with a charming smile.

All those aware of Alma's pregnancy, and how she mourned the man who hadn't lived to even know of the life he'd sired, had urged her to move on with her life. And, perhaps it was time that Rafa did likewise.

But, not just yet.

Unbeknownst to Alma, Malak had secretly requested that Rafa keep watch over her. He'd been quite evasive about why, and Rafa was soon entertaining such dire presentiments as one of the suitors being corrupted by the Holy Stone which was yet missing from their hard-won collection, and there being a Lucavi demon lurking somewhere on the dance floor. Even such lesser crises, such as one of the suitors having ill designs upon Alma, had been enough that Rafa had begun adding a pair of Damascus steel daggers to her ensemble before her brother decided to be a bit more forthcoming…

…but, only a bit.

Malak was hiding something, that much Rafa was sure of. But, he had told her that he suspected that Sir Damien might be the prevailing suitor and that, if Rafa saw nothing untoward, she was to try and nudge them together. Despite seeing several signs that Malak knew more than he was saying, she'd agreed. And so, thanks to her twin brother, the Duchess of Favoham knew for a fact that Alma's mysterious suitor would return tonight. It was only a matter of when.

And, she was right.

No sooner did Alma finish a second pastry – given by way of apology from Charlotte, which Alma had been too hungry to refuse but which likely wouldn't save Charlotte from a talking-to later on – then the double doors to the ballroom opened again. And, in swept the mysterious Romandan knight who had managed to capture her fancy the night before. Like the previous evening, "Damien Mitchell" was dressed in his dark green cloak and elegant ceremonial armor with black leggings and knee-high black boots.

Unlike the previous evening, Izlude was about an hour late to the ball. The revelations the previous evening had caused him a sleepless night as he'd tried to corral his mingled excitement and terror at his imminent fatherhood and he had needed a bit more time to go over what he wanted to say to Alma and how he would present himself to her once they'd gotten more time alone together.

He'd forgotten half of what he'd planned to say, and wasn't sure if it had been his abbreviated sleep or the pounding in his heart which was responsible. But, with one indrawn breath, he began to make his way through the crowd to the woman of this dreams…and the mother of his unborn child.

Leaning closer to her friend, Rafa whispered into Alma's ear. "Psst, he's here, Alma. Turn around."

Alma gasped and hesitated for a moment before slowly turning around and seeing the handsome young man whom she had met and danced with just the night before. As soon as he was sure he had her attention, "Damien" gave a graceful and gentlemanly bow that looked incredibly, hauntingly, similar the one Izlude gave her whenever he came to her chambers at Riovanes Castle to join her for dinner.

Although bowing was a customary gesture which men made to women during formal events, this only furthered the nigh-phantasmal similarities between this young man and her first love, though Alma wasn't sure whether it was her imagination or not.

Seeing that the person who'd so ensnared her friend's interest had returned, as Malak had predicted, Rafa saw that as her cue to leave Alma to his care and attention.

"I'll leave you two alone for now. Have fun, Catherine!" Rafa said with a wink before quietly slipping away.

It seemed that the crowd had taken Sir Damien's reappearance as a sign that the matter of which gentleman would prove the prevailing suitor had been resolved, for only a few continued to watch the pair while some either began some perfunctory gossip about the couple's future and others, regarding this font of gossip as having run dry for the moment, turned their attention elsewhere.

In more than a few cases, "elsewhere" happened to be towards Rafa.

Just because the Duchess of Lionel had already found a suitor that captured her fancy did not mean the Duchess of Favoham was unavailable as well. And, those suitors who were wise enough to know that Duchess Seymour was now beyond their grasp but were not sent slinking off in tears by this setback, realized they yet had a second chance to win a lovely and wealthy bride.

In fact, as several took in Rafa's exotic features and the hint of shapely legs visible through her semi-transparent gown, they were keen to endear themselves to her.

Unlike her normal garb, Rafa had chosen not to wear a hijab and left her head uncovered, allowing her waist-length dark brown hair, typically coiled into an elaborate flower-shaped half-bun, to flow freely down her back in soft waves. Like her twin brother, the Duchess of Favoham's dusky skin, as well as her dark hair, also highlighted her bright hazel eyes.

The Cub she'd spotted earlier, who introduced himself as Tyler, seemed to appreciate this and was quick to request a dance.

After Rafa had left, Alma quickly dipped into a curtsey. Unlike her suitor, who had dressed exactly as he had the night before, the Duchess of Lionel chose to wear a dark ocean-blue dress with puffy shoulders while detachable sleeves fluttered about her slender arms. The black laces in the front and back had been drawn as tight as could be done without risk of harm to her precious burden, and even then, it might not be long before people started to wonder if more than her newfound affluence was working its will on her waistline.

Malak had told Izlude it would be best to let Alma get to know him again, but he also had to act quickly enough to save her reputation. And, though such a balancing act would be no small feat, he drew in a breath to calm his thundering heart and resolved to see the task done.

Glad that it didn't seem like she was going to run off again, Izlude smiled and took Alma's hand in his own before delicately pressing his lips against her slender fingers.

"My lady…," he began, as if meeting her for the first time…again. "May I have this dance?"

Alma blushed as she finally allowed herself to look her favorite suitor in the eyes, relieved that he had made good on his pledge to return tonight and did not seem the least bit offended that she ran out on him the night before, and in front of such an audience, no less. In fact, unless she was imagining it, the Beoulve girl thought her suitor looked even happier than he had when they'd first met, after she had seemingly chosen him over the other men who came to Lesalia seeking her hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Manon and Charlotte, the latter clearly having imbibed too many sugary confections. The two had positively lit up at seeing her and Damien together, a sight which warmed her heart every bit as much as her suitor's reappearance.

This time, she would not let them down.

Putting on her sweetest and most crooked smile, Alma accepted the hand Damien offered and allowed him to lead her to the ballroom dance floor.

Although relieved that her favorite suitor made no mention of their abrupt parting, Alma felt the need to apologize for it just the same.

"Um, Sir Damien, about yesterday…," she began.

Before she could say anything else, Damien merely smiled, and Alma once more felt that eerie correlation between this enigmatic knight and her dead fiancé.

"It's alright, Lady Catherine," he said, to her profound relief. "I was not offended. I understand if you were feeling unwell and had to leave. More importantly, how are you feeling tonight?"

"I…I am well," Alma answered, hoping her surprise might appear as no more than shyness as she allowed Damien to lead her through a slow waltz.

For a moment – or was it an hour? Alma could not tell either way – she drifted away from the ballroom. Gone were the other waltzing pairs, the smell of the decadent refreshments which permeated the air, the stifled cheers of Manon and Charlotte, the look of profound relief on the faces of Ramza and Malak, and the somewhat displeased looks the other suitors were leveling at Damien.

While many of them had already conceded defeat regarding the courtship of "Lady Catherine" and now set their eyes on Rafa, others still disliked the idea of someone who was last to arrive, as well as being of foreign stock, emerging as if from nowhere and capturing the attention of the Duchess of Lionel with seemingly no effort.

Not that any of that mattered, now that it was clear who the Duchess of Lionel had chosen, even if an official announcement had not yet taken place. There were still suitors who yet hoped the duchess would change her mind about this mysterious Romandan knight.

But, at this moment, not even the king could make himself known to the blissful pair.

Now that he was certain he had Alma's full attention, Izlude silently vowed to do everything he could to make sure he kept it. And, that meant taking Malak's advice and trying to persuade Alma to leave the ballroom, so that they could be alone and talk away from the prying eyes of the other guests.

"You're a wonderful dancer, Lady Catherine…," Izlude began. "If I may ask, would you be interested in taking a walk alone with me around the castle gardens?"

Snapping back to awareness, and sensing the stares of her other suitors, Alma eagerly nodded in agreement. "I would love to, Sir Damien. When would you like to go?"

Izlude smiled and made another bow, this time without letting go of her hand. "No time like the present, my lady."

No sooner did those words leave his mouth, Alma's eyes widened and she found herself staring at "Damien" in astonishment, a small gasp escaping her lips. Her favorite suitor noticed right away, perplexity and concern beginning to creep across his handsome face.

"Is there a problem, my lady?" he asked, sounding worried.

For a moment, Alma was at a complete loss for words. It was true, there had been a number of eerie correlations between "Damien" and Izlude, but this one had sent a jolt up her spine and caused her heart to skip a beat. Izlude had spoken those same words, those very same words, when he'd asked her to join him for a walk around the Riovanes Castle gardens.

And, even though this Damien's accent meant that he sounded nothing like her lost love, the manner in which he spoke – the tone and inflection and the sly smile that dovetailed the words – were impossibly similar.

Very nearly dumbstruck, but not wanting to offend her handsome, raven-haired suitor again, Alma shook her head.

"My apologies, Sir Damien," she said, somewhat breathlessly. "I would love to."

"Then, let's be on our way, Lady Catherine," Izlude said with a wink as he led the Duchess of Lionel out of the ballroom and away from the prying eyes of suitors and spectators.

SSSSSS

The first lesson that a woman who chooses the path of a knight learns is that modesty is a quick casualty on the battlefield.

When Meliadoul Tingel, who'd managed a quick soak in one of the guest rooms, emerged from the tub in full view of the now blushing maids, they learned that lesson as well.

Striding with purposeful steps towards the nearest mirror, with nary a care for either her nakedness or the several pairs of eyes which were transfixed upon her, the divine knight quickly began to towel herself off as she considered her next move. Although she had originally intended to try and get some rest before getting dressed and ready, Meliadoul found herself unable to relax with her recent discovery of her late brother's chocobo in the castle's stables.

A veritable battalion of questions had begun marching through her mind as she pondered how it was possible for this Damien Mitchell to be in possession of Nelly and what she would do once she managed to find and confront him. When it became clear that a meditative soak would yield no answers as to how a stranger could tame her late brother's famously stubborn mount, she decided that she could only dress and seek him out.

After she was dry enough, the divine knight gestured, several times, for the maids to open the saddlebag which contained the dress and shoes she intended to wear to the ball along with some jewelry, perfume, and make-up. With a nervous squeak, and doing a remarkable job of dressing Meliadoul while eyeing the far corner of the room, the maids promptly began to bedeck her in the finery of the illustrious Tingel family.

Though she chaffed at the delay, and was eager to seek out Nelly's new owner, Meliadoul knew more than enough about court decorum to know that she still needed to mind her appearance since she was attending a royal ball in honor of the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel. Her adherence to decorum was situational, at best, but she was well aware that any impropriety might cost her invitation. Out of her usual gold-tone armor and green cloak, the divine knight was clad in a velvet scarlet gown with puffed sleeves and gold laces, her auburn hair put up in a braided bun secured with gold pins.

Mustadio had been quite eager to see her with her hair down after her bun had come undone during their little target shooting contest, but she'd had more than enough men cross her doorstep to know that a lady must never give a man everything he asks for all at once…

…after all, where was the fun in that?

Besides, she mused to herself, fighting down a blush, when it's a man you might want to keep, it pays to keep him interested.

Satisfied with her appearance, Meliadoul quickly beckoned for her shoes to be brought forth. One of the maids, who'd been quite jittery watching Meliadoul stride across the room stark naked and with nary a care for her small audience, now seemed mildly terrified as she bore what appeared to be a pair of slippers made from glass.

But, as was the true lesson of the War of the Lions, appearances can be deceiving.

In truth, the "glass" slippers were made from the shell of an Adamantoise, a creature from the Ivalice of antiquity whose incredibly hard shell was prized as a material from which could be made a variety of weapons, armor, jewelry, and baubles, all of which were practically unbreakable and would last long enough to be inherited by the original owner's great-great grandchildren. If not longer.

The divine knight could certainly believe the part about them being unbreakable. She'd once tried wearing them, back when her feet were much too small to fit in them properly, and one ended up falling right off and clattering down the stairway. Though the shoe had survived the misadventure with nary a scratch, this hadn't spared Meliadoul from a rather memorable spanking.

Her eyes misted at the thought, for her mother's death and Vormav's soul being evicted by Hashmalum had occurred soon thereafter.

Shaking herself back to attention, she quickly probed at her braided bun to make sure the hairpins holding it together were secure and then applied the tynar rouge to her lips as she stepped into the Lesalia Castle ballroom. Not even bothering to wait for her name to be announced first, she strode inside, her eyes scanning the expansive hall in search of the mysterious Romandan knight that the stable boys had told her about just hours before.

Nearly ten minutes later, Meliadoul was disappointed when she could not find anyone matching his description. Meliadoul knew that none of the other Romadans in attendance could be this Damien Mitchell because all of them were clad in the native garb of their homeland and, with the exception of a boisterous boyar with a deafening laugh, all were significantly older than the man Nelly's handler had described.

Though she did not see the Romandan knight she originally sought, Meliadoul did, however, notice another young man who caught her attention...

…not terribly surprising, given his ensemble.

The young man wore an embroidered golden and olive vest over a high-collared shirt while tight black leather trousers, which looked so tight that Meliadoul wondered how he could even walk in them, vanished into high leather boots with golden buckles. Draped over his shoulders was a seaman's jacket festooned with gleaming copper buttons and trailing a pair of extravagant coattails.

Yeah, that's very hard to miss, Meliadoul thought to herself, unable to keep a snicker either from her musings or her lips.

The flamboyantly dressed man stood in the corner of the ballroom, taking a sip of from a wineglass while conversing with Rad Phillips, who wore the expression of one who was, mightily, suppressing the urge to burst into laughter. Though she could understand the sentiment, and shared it, the divine knight could not help but feel that the young man looked vaguely familiar to her.

Her curiosity piqued, and needing a balm for her frustration at "Sir Damien" having eluded her, Meliadoul decided to find out just who this young man was. At first, she thought it was Balthier, as his garb closely resembled that of the smooth-talking sky pirate who had accompanied Ramza's party for the last leg of their journey.

Certainly, the ensembles of both men called to mind the flying corsairs who'd pillaged and plundered amidst the clouds of Ivalice in ages past, and the youth's hairstyle was also quite similar to Balthier's as well. But, as she drew closer, she noticed that he appeared at least a decade younger than the self-proclaimed sky pirate.

While Balthier was in his late twenties to early thirties, this young man appeared to be just skidding off his teens. What's more, there was an obvious nervous energy at work as the wineglass wobbled in his hand, whereas Balthier's blithe confidence had boggled the mind. It took the divine knight a few moments before she finally recognized him.

"Mustadio? Is that you?" she blurted, unable to hide her astonishment.

As soon as he heard the divine knight call out for his friend, Rad, who was near to soiling himself, peered over Mustadio's shoulder and grinned upon recognizing Meliadoul.

"Hey, Musty, don't look but I do believe your crush is here!" he said teasingly.

"Really?! She's here?! Tell me, Rad, how do I look?" Mustadio asked frantically as his hands flew up to his head in an attempt to smooth out any hairs that might be out of place.

"You look great!" the ex-thief assured him, his punchy grin trembling with restrained hilarity. "With that flashy get-up, there's no way Lady Tingel wouldn't notice you. Now if you'll excuse me, I do believe Lady Alicia is expecting me on the dance floor…"

Without another word, Rad finally stepped back and slipped away into the crowd of dancers on the ballroom floor. It had been quite a relief when Rad showed clear signs that he had finally chosen which of the Murry twins to be with after his lengthy and questionable habit of flirting with them both, often simultaneously. And, though their rude games yet persisted, with the girls eager to get some action and urging Rad to go all-in, everyone had noticed Rad's eyes, and lips, lingering on Alicia more and more as time went on.

Alicia, indeed, was quite eager to dance with Rad…and to know why he'd burst into laughter for no obvious reason during the middle of their waltz.

While Rad was bewildering, and infuriating his own love interest, a suddenly breathless Mustadio was left alone with the divine knight who he had been obsessing over ever since they'd met on the opposite sides of the battlefield before she finally joined Ramza's party.

Taking a deep breath, the blond machinist finally forced himself to turn around to face the lady of his dreams.

And, he found himself unable to say a word.

Likewise, Meliadoul herself was just as stunned to see the scrappy blond boy looking every bit as dashing as the legendary sky pirates she used to read about in books describing an era where magic was commonplace and airships crowded out the heavens. With his boyish pony-tail gone and his hair slicked back, not to mention his flashy garb, it was no wonder Meliadoul mistook him for Balthier. In fact, if she didn't know better, the divine knight could have sworn the two men looked similar enough to be related.

When he finally remembered himself, Mustadio belatedly, and nervously, gave a gentlemanly bow before Meliadoul. Despite not being a noble, the blond machinist was lucky enough to have received some helpful hints in ballroom etiquette from Ramza himself upon his arrival in Lesalia.

Mustadio remembered, in particular, how Ramza had agreed to help with nary a second thought, and despite clearly having more important things on his mind. The machinist also remembered, very clearly, that Ramza was a great friend…

…hopefully, he could remember the actual lessons just as well.

"My lady!" he entreated, a bit shrilly and while tugging at his suddenly tight collar. "Will you honor me with the pleasure of a dance?"

Amused by the youth's shy attempt at imitating Balthier's suave mannerisms, which she also found cute, Meliadoul smiled and accepted Mustadio's proffered hand.

"I would love to, Master Bununza," she answered politely, speaking in the sweetest tone she could muster.

With wry amusement, she noted how she'd sounded like a schoolgirl who'd caught the eye of the handsomest boy on campus, which would've been quite uncharacteristic of her under normal circumstances.

But, then again, when was the last time that the divine knight's circumstances could be called "ordinary"?

Not for quite some time, she had to admit. Still, while Meliadoul Tingel was not the type of woman who was easily charmed or impressed, she had to admit, at least to herself, that the blond youth had done a fine job of both as she allowed him to lead her to the ballroom floor.

Looking at Mustadio now, it was hard for the divine knight to believe he was the same scrappy machinist who, despite being able to stare down Lucavi demons without flinching and who could put a bullet through a man's forehead at one hundred paces, used to stutter around any attractive woman he met, including herself. It was still evident that Mustadio was quite nervous and shy around her, and that his newfound garb and mannerisms were attempts to both make himself seem bolder and more confident, as well as more dashing.

Truth be told, Meliadoul found him quite pleasing just the way he was, for that was the man who'd broken her free of her nihilistic stupor, even when she'd been…less than grateful. Still, the sheer effort he was willing to put into making himself more appealing to her did tease a smile from her lips, along with a laugh or two as he'd used some…unorthodox means by which to accomplish those dance steps which were not designed for use when the lady was the taller of the two dancers.

The divine knight nearly choked on one of her giggles, however, when a cold, gauntleted hand clamped down upon her shoulder and spun her around with a wrenching tug.

She came to a stop, nearly losing her balance, and ended up face to face with a female templar, fully armed and armored, and whose pretty face was contorted with rage.

"Dame Lolotte Gervain?" Meliadoul blurted out, recognizing the fuming templar. "What are you doing here? Unhand me at once!"

"Or, what?" Lolotte asked with a sneer before raising her voice to attract the attention of the rest of the chamber. "Dame Meliadoul Tingel, as a woman-at-arms of the Knights Templar, and in light of your conspicuous absence from several key engagements during which our order was decimated, I name you deserter and coward, unfit to lead, or rebuild, the ranks of those you abandoned!"

"We both know those are very serious charges, and that there can be only one answer," the divine knight pointed out, her green eyes narrowing into emerald daggers.

"Indeed," Lolotte confirmed, her lips curving in a predatory grin. "And, I aim to prove them with my blade! Draw your sword, or borrow one, for I challenge you to defend your honor in a duel…or, will you flee from this battle as well?"

Meliadoul knew she was being baited, and not only before her own countrymen and the king and queen, but also the visitors from Ordalia and Romanda as well. She also knew that Dame Lolotte was a savvy opponent, nimble as a panther and just as deadly.

Meliadoul had seen Lolotte face a force of ten men singlehanded…and promptly leave them in five or six pieces each while she herself sported no greater disfigurement than a good sweat. But, Lolotte was also a base egotist, one who'd never engage in a fair bout gracefully…

…indeed, if she had any idea that Meliadoul had spent the last two months chasing down and slaying demons, Lolotte would've assuredly kept her mouth shut.

Regardless, though Lolotte was skilled, she was hardly above using taunts and insults, especially in front of an audience, to tip the scales in her favor. But, right now, Meliadoul didn't care.

She just wanted to smash that leering face in. And, if Lolotte wanted an unfair match, then she'd certainly come to the right place.

"A duel, you say?" she asked, as calmly as though asked if she might prefer red wine rather than white, and then her lips tugged into the smug grin which had been the final sight for many a foe during her years as a templar. "I accept."