A/N: Sorry for the wait, everyone! Too all our loyal readers who have been following this story for the past few years, thank you so much for your patience! Enjoy and please review!
Interlude 3, Part 3: To Forgive is to Heal, To be Forgiven is to be Saved
The nightmare that had haunted the dreams of all kings of Ivalice was coming true…
…well, sort of.
Within hours of the crown falling upon his head, with the luster of its gold and the weight of its burdens, the king was informed of this final redoubt within which he and his kin and court would be secreted in the event of capital and castle being besieged by Ivalice's enemies. And, just as those who maintained the war council chamber had a nigh superstitious dread that this final defense of the king would see use, and fail when the time came, so too did the prospect of battle following in pursuit of the monarch who scrambled to this grim warren haunt the darkest dreams of the king and all his inner circle.
And now, at long last, that ancient dread was realized.
Battle had come to the war council chamber, the last refuge of the kings of Ivalice, but the invader was neither the Ordalians with their curved blades and horned helms, nor the Romandans with their guns and cannons.
Indeed, had other eyes been upon this chamber, they would see only bare stone being cratered by pillars of sacred ice, furniture blasted to splinters by heavenly lightning, and carpet scorched black by divine radiance.
And, they would see the king, red of eye and feral of face, wreaking havoc upon a phalanx of foes that, apparently, he alone could see.
Of course, those red rimmed eyes saw something far different.
Every shard of ice conjured by his Judgement Blade, each pillar of Hallowed Bolt, and all the searing beams of Divine Ruination was unleashed with deadly purpose, and behind every display of the Holy Sword arts was the rage of a man betrayed by his own folly and the grief of a life misspent and ruined.
And, dancing away from each blast, was the ever-sneering revenant of Algus Sandalfas, a taunt and a laugh passing his lips with each escape.
"You don't stand a ghost of a chance against me." Algus snickered. "The Gods have no eyes for chattel!"
On and on the chase went, curtains of red descending over the devastation and the sound of stone being crushed and wood being splintered giving way to a shrill ringing. And yet, through it all, Algus remained untouched, save by the decay which withered his limps and yet left him more agile than he'd been while alive. Snarling, Delita invoked another Hallowed Bolt, this time so close that it dazzled his eyes and made his hair stand up on end. His vision cleared in time to reveal that Algus was gone. For the better part of a heartbeat, he wondered if he had finally slain again the man he'd slain once, when a snatch of sound drew his gaze to the arched doorway on the far side of the room.
"Try and attack me, you arrogant fool!" Algus challenged though incisors that fell out and sprouted anew over and over again. "I'll suck out your life force!"
Delita turned, beheld his nemesis, and, incensed beyond reason, charged.
And, beyond reason he was.
Had but a drop of lucidity remained to him, he might've noticed that his foe had seemed startled, even alarmed, by the sudden attack; a peculiar reaction from one who had lost his life and could not lose it again. No less peculiar, his enemy had drawn a sword. Yet, this blade was not one of the many which had been spilled amidst the chase, for he'd drawn it from a scabbard which he'd not had before, which was affixed to a belt he'd not been wearing before either.
Yet another oddity still was why a foe who was undead, and had no cause to fear the slash of a simple sword, would bother to parry.
But, this was lost on Delita, who, abandoning all technique in favor of unbridled rage, lunged forward and brought his blade down upon Algus with a blow strong enough to fell a tree in one stroke. Feral delight crossed his features as Algus's arms buckled under the impact and he was driven back.
Some sliver of joy worked its way into Delita's being at this turn in the tide, but anger promptly devoured him once more at the final insult.
"You could not save your sister from me," Algus reminded him. "And now, you cannot even save yourself from me either!"
Another blow fell, and another and another after that, in a fury driven frenzy which could only be quenched by the blood of both combatants. Yet, as metal grinded together and sparks sprayed the air, Algus yet remained unscathed, his blade a blur of motion as he deflected or slapped aside even Delita's mightiest blows and skittered away from the rest. Yet, though many opportunities to strike back presented themselves amidst Delita's reckless onslaught, neither riposte, nor slash, nor thrust interrupted the succession of masterful blocks, parries, and dodges.
Delita should've found this perplexing, perhaps even cause to lower his blade, but in his present state these peculiarities but incensed him all the more.
"Damn you!" he howled. "Stand and fight, Algus!"
Had he imagined Algus's eyes pulsing wide at those words? Perhaps, perhaps not. But, he cared nothing in any case. Instead, he continued to batter at Algus's defenses until, having him hemmed between two pillars which flanked a corner of the chamber, he finally saw his foe's blade waver under the relentless assault. Delita drew back his sword, keen to have Algus's head from his shoulders, but his foe was suddenly gone. Too late, and with the sword whistling through the air with such force as to turn Delita on his heel, he realized that his foe had tucked into a roll and launched himself through the tiny gap in what seemed an inescapable trap.
"There is no place in the world for the meager!" Algus spat, a spray of congealed blood accompanying the caustic words.
The long-delayed counterattack came at last when Delita felt white hot pain shoot through his shoulder. Even as numbness crept up his arm, he took one last swing at Algus, only for his blade to be battered aside again. This time, the sword was torn free of his grasp and sent flying. What remained of Delita's mind pointed out that it was peculiar for Algus to smash his shoulder out of joint when he could've hacked off his arm, and more peculiar still that his foe would choose this moment to sheathe his sword. But, that voice was only a whisper now.
Deaf, figuratively and nigh-literally, to whatever taunts writhed on Algus's partially rotten lips, Delita answered the unheard words with his fist. Algus was sent staggering by the blow, though he recovered with surprising speed. More incredulous than surprised, and with the Martial Arts training of a Monk being yet another of the many skills with which he'd ruined himself, Delita came on. He unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks, supplemented by Aura Blasts that gouged craters in the walls and Shockwaves which brought further ruin upon the already pockmarked floor. His pounding heart afire with rage and anguish that crushed fatigue and pain alike, he continued the onslaught, many blows slipping past Algus's defenses to smash into his ribs, to flatten his nose, to ensconce his eyes in coronas of bruising, and to pummel his stomach.
Yet, Algus was giving as good as he got.
Though he dodged far more often than he countered, his nigh skeletal hands seemed more akin to steel than bone. One punch to Algus's ribs was repaid in kind and had Delita gasping while a blow to one sunken cheek was answered with another that had Delita's left eye swelling up. On and on it went until, at the crucial moment, the fire in Delita's blood suddenly ran short on fuel to keep it burning. Lightheaded, and more than a bit concussed, his straining arm trembled and his fist went astray.
And Algus, almost hesitantly, struck him full on.
"You'll wish you were mongering flowers like you ought once this blow falls!" Algus sneered triumphantly.
A blow to the solar plexus knocked the wind right out of the Delita and the following uppercut sent him hurtling end over end to crash in an undignified dangle atop the sole undamaged chair in the room, staring bleary eyed at the inverted image of his tormentor as he limped his way along the floor where the ceiling should be.
Then, perhaps jolted free by the repeated beatings he'd taken, lucidity finally returned and forced its way past Delita's bleeding and swollen lips.
"Since when do hallucinations hit that hard?" he asked no one in particular.
Though the words were barely audible, and likely went unheard, an answer came nonetheless when the battered Algus staggered near and, his once haughty expression suddenly one of earnest concern, spoke.
"Can we talk?"
As much as they could in their swollen state, Delita's eyes bulged in astonishment. The voice had come from Algus's mouth, and it was Algus's lips that formed the words.
Yet, it was not Algus's voice which had spoken.
It had neither Algus's condescending tones, nor the precise staccato and curious vowel shifts of his native Limberry. Instead, it was smooth and mellifluous, uniquely open and bereft of the inflections which he'd learned to hint at ulterior motives.
It was a voice that engendered trust, which was reassuring to the ear, and which Delita knew as well as his own.
"Ram...Drake?" he rasped out, barely remembering to use the pseudonym he'd "given" to Ramza, along with his stewardship of, and veritable imprisonment in, Lionel Castle.
Sure enough, the image of Algus, now doubled after a particularly nasty blow to the face, began to change. One of the two Alguses remained as he was, though he'd fallen silent. But, the other was no longer blonde, nor was he half in the grave and half out. Instead, he was red haired, untouched by whatever macabre spell had had Algus looking fair one moment and rotting to his bones the next. And, though he was battered, bruised, and bleeding from their brawl, he paid no heed to his injuries and instead staggered over to the broken shell of a man who stared at him, astonished and upside down.
Though his vision swam, as much with tears as with the effects of his newly acquired wounds, Delita could clearly see something on Ramza's face that jolted him to his core…
…or, rather, it was what he didn't see that so shook him.
There were few men he had wronged more than Ramza, possibly excepting those who were dead.
Delita had chivvied Ramza into taking then-Princess Ovelia to Lionel, thus ensuring that Ramza would deliver the woman he'd sworn to protect into the hands of those who'd become his deadliest enemy.
Delita, recognizing what a splendid decoy Ramza would make, had played a role in branding him as the heretic who'd killed Cardinal Draclau, ensuring that the former Beoulve would be hunted by church and state alike.
Delita had knowingly allowed Orlandu to be relieved of his command on a false charge of treason, thus disgracing a man who was practically like Ramza's uncle and cutting off an avenue by which Ramza might've brought the war to a, comparatively, merciful conclusion.
Delita had imprisoned Olan, and then blackmailed him into servitude, thus putting yet another of Ramza's few friends beyond his grasp.
And then, to top it all off, Delita had made the unspoken price of Ramza's new name and home, not to mention help marrying off his unwed pregnant sister, be that Ramza keep all these abhorrent secrets so that the truth might die with the two men.
Oh, Delita had helped Ramza…when it suited his purposes. Every other time, he had had no compunction against giving warnings he knew Ramza would ignore, dropping hints that would see Ramza charge into danger, and generally being ready to kill his old friend if it became necessary.
So, why did Ramza's expression convey not anger or vengefulness, but instead concern and alarm?
He could not say, not the smallest reason being that his head was spinning and his vision going dark from the blows he'd unwittingly traded with the man who, above most if not all others, was within his rights to kill him. The last thing Delita felt before consciousness deserted him was the gentle warmth of healing magic mending the damage done to flesh and bone.
And, the last thing he thought was that the true damage could not be mended by any incantation.
SSSSSS
Delita's slumber was, thankfully, dreamless…
…though, when he saw Ramza hovering over him, the expected malice still absent from his features, he couldn't help but second guess whether he'd truly awoken.
Unable to answer his own question, and fearing just what the answer might be, Delita took stock of his surroundings. However, and whenever, his unwitting attack upon Ramza had ended, the Duke of Lionel had set Delita upon the most undamaged section of floor he could find and had been perusing the chamber's stores for bandages and medicine, some of which had been hastily arrayed nearby. Having noticed his patient stirring, Ramza had dropped a roll of bandages, which promptly unrolled itself as it travelled across the room, much to the duke's chagrin.
Delita, reminded of simpler and better times, had almost laughed.
How long ago it seemed, that the Duke of Lionel would run hither and yon, chasing dragonflies along the riverbank near what had once been their idyllic childhood home in Igros. Not that Ramza had ever actually caught any; the most he'd caught was a cold when he'd unwittingly strayed into the rocky shallows and ended up taking home a fair portion of the muddy riverbed.
Delita recalled how he'd teasingly voiced his anticipation of the lecture Ramza would receive for soiling his clothes, only for Ramza to throw several globules at him and proclaim that they were in this together.
"How confounding," he muttered under his breath. "The way things change, and yet stay the same."
"What was that?" Ramza asked, his casual tone belying just how far removed both men were from those simpler and better times.
"Nothing important," Delita replied, the irony of the words hitting him like a slap upon his mouth.
As he surveyed the devastation around him, Delita noticed that the spectral host had withdrawn a-ways. Though he could see no translucent faces leering at him in mute accusation, an eerie mist had gathered at the fringes of the room.
Watching, Waiting. Judging. He could not say which.
As for the revenant of Algus, he too had withdrawn, but yet remained in view. Perhaps Algus had recalled what had happened the last time he'd confronted both Delita and Ramza, the recollection leaving him less-than-enthused for another such confrontation. Regardless, the undead son of House Sandalfas presently leaned out from behind a scarred pillar, his shriveled eyes watching the scene before him with anxious incredulity.
Those eyes met Delita's, and he could not hold the stare. After all, the harm he and Algus had done to one another was readily matched by how Delita had betrayed Ramza time and again.
"How did you find me?" he asked, though more to distract himself than anything else. "These chambers are a bit out of the way."
And, in truth, that was no accident. Over the past few days, the roiling of his despairing thoughts and the profuseness with which his wounds of the spirit bled had become more and more difficult to conceal while in public.
The voices of those he had professed to aid in his quest to overturn the old order of Ivalice and replace it with something better, most of whom he'd harmed as grievously, and as casually, as either of the warring dukes, had begun as a low, but insistent whispering between his ears.
So too had the condemnation by those he had betrayed, more often than not to their deaths, as had the venom in Ramza's words when they'd met again after the war, and the fear on Ovelia's face when he saw just how his villainy had turned the woman he loved against him.
In bright daylight, these voices were softened, and could be drowned out by the myriad concerns of ruling a kingdom limping its way free of the ashes of war. A duel with an aspirant Knight of the Chimera, an inspection of those cities and villages being rebuilt, or built, after the flames of war had guttered out, even the tedious meetings with his council could almost make him forget the voices were even there.
Almost.
He'd to bank these vengeful voices behind walls of will by daylight. But, at night, the cold, hard truth caused these walls to frost over.
Then, slowly but surely, they began to crack.
Mirage images of people – some he knew and others whose names were unknown but whose fates he could guess at – would slip into his vision, unheard words writhing upon ethereal snarling lips as they lurked upon the fringes of his sight. When his gaze darted in their direction however, they'd vanish, and he'd instead be greeted by the faces of several of the castle's inhabitants.
And, all regarded him with deep perplexity and a no small amount of worry.
Later, it grew worse.
Some of those he'd betrayed most grievously, such as Baron Grimms and Duke Goltana, would lurk unseen at his shoulder, their condemnations growing louder until they threatened to drown out all other voices.
Most tellingly, the voice of Confessor Zalmo, whom Delita had killed simply to preserve his cover and ensure his valuable decoy, Ramza, was not caught too soon, had railed so that Delita had entirely missed an economic forecast by his finance minister.
Undoubtedly, those present had found it strange, and more than a bit worrisome, that the king had requested that the minister repeat himself several times for no obvious reason, as well as seem quite distressed and agitated while hearing that Ivalice's economy was growing healthily again.
Soon, no longer confined to the dark hours where they could torment his restless, lonely nights, the specters made themselves known, by sight and by sound, whenever they wished. And, though Delita told himself, time and again, that those deaths had purchased a better future for those who yet lived and who would come after, his words could neither shore up his mental defenses nor still the ghosts whose lives he'd cut short.
To forestall any discovery of his mental state, he had made himself increasingly busy and aloof, but this growing isolation fueled both the disquiet amongst his subjects and his own despair.
And now, at the height of his folly and the depths of his anguish, here he was amidst the rubble and ashes of a chamber he had decimated while madly pursuing phantoms that no longer walked the mortal plane, being tended to by the one man who had more reason than most to kill him.
He felt much like the ravaged warren looked.
Damaged. Broken in battle.
Stained with blood and darkness.
"I'd been trying to find you since the end of the first ball," Ramza spoke up, and perhaps not for the first time given that he'd likely been trying to talk Delita down during their bout. "When I was searching the ground floor, I could hear some sort of commotion from beneath me, but it took me a while to find a door leading in here. They are pretty well hidden. When I finally got in here, I saw you lunging at me, and…and, I'm sorry."
"What do you have to feel sorry for?" Delita asked, more than hint of bitterness in his tone. "You were defending yourself against a deranged lunatic. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd killed me."
Here, he paused and let out the bleak sort of laughter known to come over those standing at the gallows with the noose about their necks.
"Frankly, I would've preferred it."
Delita had known Ramza since both were small children in a seemingly distant time, and in an even more distant time where they'd lived innocently within Igros Castle. And, in all that time, and even after, he'd known Ramza to be a man of impossibly mild temper, overly demure in speech, slow to anger, and who assumed the role of aggressor only with the greatest reluctance…
…so, it came as something of a surprise when Ramza suddenly glared at Delita and barked "Don't say that!"
Delita's still swollen eyes bulged, as did Ramza's similarly bruised orbs, and the former Beoulve seemed so struck enough by his own vehemence that he tried to moderate the remainder of his words.
"Same old…Drake," Delita murmured, the sound of Ramza's pseudonym burning at the back of his throat. "Too soft-spoken and too much a diplomat for this hard, cruel world."
"What was that?" Ramza asked, almost as though Delita had unwittingly interrupted him.
Delita had been about to dismiss his idle ramblings as just that, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was how they were, in fact, the very opposite of idle ramblings. Or, maybe it was because, after seeing the full grave depth and terrible breadth of his deceit, he longed to at last be rid of his endless pretenses and vacillations.
Or, quite possibly, it was because he was sick at heart, alone, and afraid. And, he desperately wanted someone who could lend an ear to his sorrow.
Granted, of all people, he had the least right to expect either kind words or reassurance from Ramza, who he'd professed to love as a brother and yet betrayed again and again, but a rebuff would merely add but another drop of pain into a veritable ocean of agony.
To remain silent, by contrast, would mean certain madness.
"Ramza…What did you get?" he asked, finally voicing a question that had haunted him nearly as much as the weight of the dead.
"What do you mean?" Ramza asked, seemingly quite befuddled by the question.
"You seriously don't understand?" Delita eyed him with such incredulous disbelief that Ramza tensed under his gaze. "You left one of the most illustrious Houses in Ivalice, and the chance to command one of her finest knightly orders. And, for what? Because of Teta's death? Because you thought I was dead too?"
If the former Beoulve have been befuddled before, he now seemed quite gobsmacked. After a moment, however, he schooled his features back into an expression of calm and empathetic attentiveness.
"Wasn't that enough?" he asked after a long pause, the question grimly rhetorical. "I lost two people I loved dearly, and for what? The Corpse Brigade was already as good as beaten. And, even if they did escape, they would've just become another band of brigands on a list of hundreds."
"And yet, who could say how many innocents would've died if that had happened? Most brigands are just brutes who have all the tactical acumen of a drunken goblin. But, the Corpse Brigade? Veterans of war? Something else entirely, and much more dangerous. You never thought that one life was an acceptable trade to save hundreds of others?"
Why Delita was asking this, he could not say. Perhaps he wondered if Ramza might've discerned some path or alternative that they had overlooked on that fateful day. Maybe, as was the wont of the miserable, he wanted his anguish to infect others. Quite possibly, he was just going crazy.
Given that he'd spent the better part of an hour trying to kill a hallucination, and nearly killed someone he'd once called a friend instead, that last one seemed downright plausible.
Perhaps Ramza was contemplating that same question, or maybe he too was convalescing on that day his world and his place within it had, much like Fort Zeakden, vanished amidst smoke and thunder, for he was silent for a long moment. Ultimately, he heaved a heavy sigh and spoke.
"Is that what you told yourself?" Ramza asked. "That sacrificing a few innocents here and there could save the rest?"
Spying the revenant of Algus emerging partly from his hiding place and smiling cadaverously at this seeming vindication, Delita nodded sadly.
"Such an easy snare to stumble into," he remarked with an air of philosophical melancholy. "Even long after you step into it, you never realize it. Even after you're hoisted into the air, you can still look at the lives you did save and make merry of that silver lining. You dangle by your ankle, held in place, and all you can feel is the blood rushing to your head. An intoxicating thrill that delights until you realize the truth."
"And, what is the truth?" Ramza asked, the seemingly unanswerable question spoken in deeply serious tones.
After years spent building deceits upon deceits, of weaving plots within plots, and manipulating the very wheels of history into spinning in a direction of his choosing, one might've thought Delita as being incapable of even comprehending the question, let alone answering it. Yet now, laying broken before one he had wronged so supremely, a truth as bitter as the mingled blood and tears upon his lips sprang to mind quite readily.
"The truth is that I wish I'd died in Teta's place that day."
"I doubt you're alone in wishing that," the revenant of Algus intoned with a phlegm muffled chuckle. "After all, her memory would've been gone unspoiled if you hadn't lived long enough to drag it through the mud."
Feeble though it was, a spark of rage kindled in Delita's breastbone at these words and, even as the truth of them seared him anew, he tried to rise and dare one last attack against the hated ghoul that tormented him.
Maybe, just possibly, knocking enough teeth out of those receding gums would assuage his pain. And, even if it didn't, what did he have left to lose?
"Delita!" Ramza's voice rang out, cutting through the haze of grief that had descended over Delita's unbalanced mind and wounded spirit. "Algus isn't there! He's been killed! Twice!"
"Oh, I know that, and yet…," suddenly, Delita's eyes narrowed in perplexity. "Wait, what do you mean he was killed twice?"
"I encountered him in Limberry Castle when he was reanimated as a DeathKnight and…and, that's beside the point!"
Perhaps it was, but the claim about Algus having died more than once had, ironically, wrested Delita's attention away from the twice slain man's revenant, even as he spat phlegm and aspersions alike.
His wounds pointedly reminding him of their presence, Delita lowered himself back onto the floor, wincing at the aches and pains as he tried not to focus on those about his heart.
"You're not the only one who left Fort Zeakden with a bevvy of regrets," Ramza spoke up as he bound Delita's wounds. "I was so enchanted by my father's legacy, and so daunted, that it didn't occur to me that others who claimed to uphold it would debase it so. My inaction, my naiveté, signed Teta's death warrant as much as anything else that happened that day."
"You did more than most would've bothered," Delita pointed out. "I doubt many would've blamed you if you wrote off what happened as yet another tragedy in this sad kingdom and gone back home. At the least, I would think…Catherine would've been less lonely in her mourning."
"Maybe I should've gone back, if only to say a proper farewell. But, I would have never been able to stay. I couldn't face…well, any of it. Not the memories of you and Teta, not Alma after I'd let her down, and not knowing that what I'd grown up believing in was so badly rotted. So, I made a choice. I chose not to go home and to make my own way in the world. Maybe I was just running from my grief, or from my failures. But, I knew that, whatever I wanted to find, I'd never find it in Igros. I'd never find it in the lap of luxury, ignorant of the world beyond those castle gates."
A bitter laugh attempted to escape from Delita's lips at these words, though it became a ragged cough instead when his battered ribs protested the abuse. Though Ramza had likely meant nothing of the sort, his talk about his decision to leave his pampered and prestigious life in Igros in order to find solace in parts unknown sounded like some grand journey of self-discovery, of seeking to build a new life from the ashes of tragedy and betrayal. Some remnant of Delita's more fanciful side even voiced the opinion that such a journey sounded romantic…
…certainly more so than a journey in which the voyager gained a throne and a wife who believed him to have a heart of ice.
"And, even if I wanted to go back, what was there to go back to?" the former Beoulve went on. "It wouldn't have taken Dycedarg long to notice my disapproval of his methods, of how I thought his designs, and his justifications, worse than whatever they were created to oppose. I wanted to serve the people of Ivalice, not the warped ambitions of one man. I couldn't do that at Igros; sometimes I wasn't sure if I could do it anywhere at all. But, I knew that there was little for me there. Even if I'd stayed, it would've still haunted me, not just the tragedy of Teta's death, but how senseless it all was. The Corpse Brigade rose, and fell, because the crown failed to honor a pledge to its defenders, and then because the Brigade chose banditry over lifting the people and leading them to build something better out of their lives. I think I've learned enough to know that, at times, you have to do that which you'll come to regret, but such a betrayal is well beyond what I can abide. So, I took to the road, trying to find…a fresh start, or maybe answers."
"And, did you get your answers?"
The humorless laugh answered the question well before Ramza's head swiveled from side to side.
"So, what did you get?" he asked once more, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Besides a roll in the hay with the prettiest Holy Knight in the Lionsguard, that is."
Something almost resembling amusement, maybe even delight, rippled briefly at Delita's heart when he saw Ramza blush and begin to splutter. But, after a time, he calmed himself and simply said "Family".
Though but a single word, small and commonly used in a thousand thousand connotations, Delita knew Ramza's "family" to be quite unique. A ragtag collection of men and women, most of whom looking more akin to boys and girls, who had been flung together by the misfortunes of war and yet who had banded together to survive, to aid those they could, and to persist against overwhelming odds. In so doing, these strangers from all corners of the realm and all walks of life, some of whom had once been enemies, had forged ties with one another, come to trust each other, and had found belonging, and even love, in a chaotic realm that would've considered their deaths to be a cause for celebration.
Strange though it was, even someone like Delita could see that such a family was one worth preserving, worth protecting, worth fighting for.
And, one worth envying.
It was also one that likely would remain beyond Delita's grasp, for though he was adored by the masses, they adored the illusion he'd made of himself.
As for those who knew him truly, those who were not dead were well aware of his true colors.
As though sensing his thoughts, Algus drew closer and, even with his teeth constantly raining upon the floor and growing back but heartbeats later, there was no mistaking the triumphant condescension in his grin.
"I'd been thinking often lately," Delita admitted. "About whether it would've been better if I'd joined your damn fool idealistic crusade when I had the chance."
"You had to protect Ovelia," Ramza pointed out, though he winced as he realized that bringing her up might not be wise.
"And, look how that turned out. She got a full view of the man she married, and now she's terrified of me. I could see it in her eyes the last time we were together." The phrase "last time", and the double-meaning it conveyed, struck Delita harder than Ramza's fist had during their bout. "It was as though I could hear her asking herself when I'd decide that she was no longer useful, and that, when it happened, I'd kill her. And…and I considered it!"
Expecting Ramza to recoil in horror – or better yet, to snatch up a sword and run him through – Delita found it worse when Ramza's expression was one of quiet sadness, as though the grief pouring out of Delita was one he presently shouldered.
As if they were still friends.
Such could not be, of course. Not after everything that had passed between them.
Algus seemed to sense this, for his smile, immaculate on one side and undead on the other, broadened to unnatural proportions.
Yet, strangely enough, Ramza regarded Delita with a curious blend of contemplation and concern, as though he were not seated before a monster on par with the Lucavi who'd terrorized Ivalice during the time of Saint Ajora.
Ramza, your naivete is truly the stuff of legends, Delita mused, idly wondering if Algus thought likewise.
But, Ramza's next words surprised both king and revenant alike.
"But, you didn't kill her. Why not?"
His brow furrowing, Delita pondered the question. A tangle of voices, some sibilant ones belonging to his Machiavellian inclinations, offered a bevvy of suggestions, all of which found counterparts in the vengeful voices of the dead. Yet, amidst the gloom was something far different. Something bright and warm, and removed, however slightly, from the muck and mire that Delita had unwittingly dived into.
It hadn't been part of the original plan for him to fall in love with Ovelia, but he had.
And, that had been enough to stop him from caving in her skull and making sure it was blamed on the veritable menagerie of pending accidents that she'd forested their chambers with.
Ramza, and Algus, seemed to sense his thoughts once more, for the latter's ghoulish face contorted with displeasure while the former gave a sliver of a nod.
Ramza had apparently seen something that he approved of, but Delita could not guess at what that might be.
"What, you think my loving Ovelia could balance the scales when there are hundreds – no, thousands! – of dead on the other side?"
"No," Ramza said flatly. "But, it's a start. And, it's far more than anyone else with designs on the throne had."
"It's easy enough to disparage Ruvelia, Larg, and Goltana. They've no power beyond the grave nowadays. I took…certain pains to make sure tongues were loosened about their…failings."
Indeed, Delita had, citing those three as examples of what Ivalice could afford no more of, even using his brief position as Goltana's foremost confidant – which he'd claimed availed him little when, in truth, he hadn't used it beyond easing the duke's neck onto the chopping block – to boost himself up as one who, as with all of Ivalice, was angered and saddened by the carnage and misery which had so nearly made ashes of the kingdom. Much like he'd unwittingly dragged Teta's name through the mud, he'd done so quite deliberately with Ruvelia, Larg, and Goltana's.
And, in truth, it wasn't that hard.
Even before their deaths, all three were reviled. Hated by the people who'd been ruinously taxed by those who so casually disregarded their duty to protect those whom they reportedly led, loathed by those whose kin were sent to die for the vain ambitions of pretenders to the throne, and despised for allowing the "distractions" of banditry, rebellion, and exploitation to go unchecked.
Yes, Delita had needed merely to "endorse" criticism of their hubris, even as it was nearly outstripped by his own, and it seemed but a twinkling of the eye before tongues wagged fiercely on the subject.
"And, what about Dycedarg? Have his "failings" been making the rounds?" Ramza asked, and Delita was perplexed by the question.
But then, perplexity gave way to understanding as a sudden flash of memory came back to him. He saw Rofel, idly flipping through a tome as he'd received Delita's report on his "willingness" to accept the Church's offer to mediate a peace, provided that they could convince the White Lion to do likewise.
He knew that was not possible, of course. Dycedarg and Zalbag, both slated to be assassinated along with the then-recently deceased Duke Larg, had survived and, even if neither recognized that they'd effectively be surrendering to the Church by accepting their offer, neither would've consented. Dycedarg was an ambitious and ruthless man, and more than a few believed it was his blade that had killed Larg, even if few were complaining about it. Such a man would not soon quit his quest for power, as Delita was uniquely aware. So, the supposed puppet had been ready to vacillate and match wits with Rofel when he'd surely object to the High Confessor's agent being less-than-compliant. But, to Delita's surprise, Rofel had seemed almost indifferent.
No less odd, when Rofel departed to see if he might get a better reception from Dycedarg, he'd left the book he'd been reading open on the table without bothering to return it to the shelf or even to close it.
So, naturally, Delita took a look and discovered an interesting chapter on a poisonous mushroom known as mossfungus…which bore a disturbing resemblance to a patch of mushrooms found growing on Balbanes's grave when the unlikely family had laid flowers there on the anniversary of his passing.
The implication was obvious enough, but the distinct scowl on Ramza's face gave confirmation.
"It's true, then?" he asked. "Dycedarg killed Balbanes?"
"Yes," Ramza said simply.
"Does Alma know?"
"She doesn't, and I think it's best if it stayed that way. Alma has more than enough on her mind as it is."
"Yes, I agree. How did you find out?"
"It was pure chance. Zalbag discovered it sometime beforehand, and had confronted Dycedarg just as I arrived."
"I take it that was how Zalbag died?"
There was a split second of hesitation before Ramza nodded, which caused the seed of questions – namely what Ramza was leaving out – to flower in Delita's mind, not the least of which being how Zalbag's body had reportedly been found in Murond rather than Igros. But, curiously, Ramza, who was clearly holding something back and typically wore his heart on his sleeve, was proving uncharacteristically difficult to read.
Whatever it was he chose to reveal, Delita suspected that much would be omitted. This came as something of a surprise, as Ramza knew well of Delita's involvement with the Church and their would-be attempt to subvert the monarchy, and so both men knew Delita to be privy to many of their secrets.
So, what secret, presumably unknown to Delita, did Ramza, apparently, discover decide to keep to himself?
Delita could not say, though he was fairly certain that Ramza had not chosen to do so for the sake of plausible deniability.
Perhaps sensing the course of Delita's thoughts, Ramza quickly changed the subject.
"I had a chance to talk to him, before the end," he said, gravely. "He was…in a bad way, and not just because he knew he wasn't going to live. He talked about how he regretted that he hadn't listened to me when I told him of Dycedarg's involvement in the plot against Ovelia. I also think he felt he should've realized sooner what had happened to…to father, maybe even realized it in time to have stopped it. He was just so…so tormented by his regrets."
Here, Ramza paused and brushed at his eyes. And, though Delita could still sense that much was left unsaid, the grief and regret in the former Beoulve's words was obvious and undiluted enough to still the questions blossoming in his mind.
"I think that was what, truly, convinced me that I was right not to go back to Igros," Ramza affirmed once he'd found his voice again. "Though I never truly wanted to, especially after learning about the assassination attempt, there were days I wondered if I could've done more from the inside to end the war. From time to time, I'd hear about how this faction or that wanted the same thing I did. Every once in a while, House Beoulve would say the same thing, offering to forgive all if I came back."
Again, Ramza paused, and a self-deprecating laugh parted his lips.
"I've never admitted this to anyone, but there were times when I wondered if, maybe, House Beoulve was in earnest and I was letting my past cloud my judgment," he said, and Delita was only too conscious of the weight of that admission. "Yes, Dycedarg had plotted to assassinate Ovelia and pin the deed on Goltana, but what if he'd done so under coercion, or having failed to foresee what his actions would lead to? Maybe, if I'd gone back, I might've accomplished more than being rebuked after presenting a theory to Zalbag that sounded ridiculous, even to me."
Ramza's boyish face, almost as emotive of that of a small child, had shifted through a number of expressions as he spoke. Flowing from self-deprecation to wistfulness, before contorting into thoughtfulness and then frustration. But, curiously, regret never once crossed his features, which ultimately took on a look of steely resolution.
"But, when I learned that Dycedarg had murdered father, that he had watched him sicken and die knowing full well why and yet did nothing to stop it, I was certain," Ramza finished. "Going back would've been pointless. How could I appeal to the conscience of a man who would poison his own father just to satisfy some warped ambition? And, when I saw how much it tortured Zalbag in just those few minutes, the regrets that came with following the orders of the same man who'd ignited the war and killed our father, I knew. Yes, I've made decisions I regret, some of which will pain me until I die. But that, I can live with. Ending up the same as Zalbag, being led by the nose by the same man who murdered our father and then end up so tormented by regrets that an untimely death was practically a mercy? No. My "damn fool idealistic crusade", as you called it, was the better path."
Delita had neither the words to argue the point, nor indeed the inclination. Though he knew many tidbits about how Ramza had lived following his decision to leave House Beoulve, to roam the land anonymously and to aid those he could and live his life as his own man, Delita knew well enough to know that such a life was not for the fainthearted. And, that was before he'd been stamped with the false charge of heresy and forced to live the life of a fugitive.
And yet, for all that, Ramza had gained far more than he'd lost.
He had found many friends, he had found a woman he loved, he had found the freedom to make up his own mind and act upon his own conscience rather than the ebb and flow of the ever-simmering cauldron of noble Houses scheming against each other.
In losing his name, Ramza had gained his freedom. In forfeiting his inheritance, he had become rich in friends and experience and wisdom. In abandoning his House, he had honored what it had once stood for, and he'd done so admirably.
And, all because he'd seized upon a seemingly mad notion purely because his conscience would not abide the alternative.
"That's wisely put," Delita opined, neither noticing nor caring how his envy colored his tone. "What I'd give to have taken such advice when I'd had the chance."
"You probably would've been a great help," Ramza admitted. "You always were the better warrior between us, and that was before you learned the Holy Sword arts. But, like I said, you had to protect Ovelia."
Delita winced as the wounds about his heart throbbed anew, and he hastily tried to inject some levity into this latest reminder of his follies.
"But, you'd probably had quite enough of sleeping with one eye open, I suspect?"
"You better believe it."
"Templars?"
"Agrias. Do you have any idea what happens when you take a powerful Holy Knight and give her pregnancy cravings? It's terrifying!"
Even before Ramza had elaborated, Delita could find this claim quite believable. Though becoming a mother and a wife, in that order, had softened a great deal of the Holy Knight's cold severity, Delita didn't doubt that Agrias still had her strong sword arm and her quick temper. He also didn't doubt that Ramza, too demure and too kindhearted for his harsh world, would've done everything he could to accommodate her after unwittingly getting her with his child.
And, sure enough, the details had Delita very nearly overpowered by the hilarity of it. Apparently, a recurring craving for the then-pregnant Holy Knight was an especially succulent peach that only grew on Murond. After, somehow, convincing Agrias just how unwise it was for him to be regularly sneaking into the very heart of the Church of Glabados at an ungodly hour (by which, he'd discovered that accidental puns could also prickle Agrias's temper), he'd managed to get her to settle for buying such peaches when they were exported to areas less hazardous. Such a time came just after, ironically, those events on Murond. Not long after those events which Ramza seemed so reluctant to disclose, the group had stopped in Dorter. A stand selling exotic fruits, including the sought-after peaches, had caught his eye. Unfortunately, it was manned by a merchant who, given how the prices of his goods had been driven upwards by their scarcity and the difficulty of acquiring them, seemed in a foul temper.
He'd briefly brightened when Ramza had offered to buy a respectable fraction of this expensive inventory, but his mood promptly soured again when Agrias, by then nine months along, grabbed the satchel of fruits and tore into them with a gusto that had several onlookers turning green…and, since this happened before the money had changed hands, the merchant's face had a fair bit of red to it as well.
Ramza, being Ramza, had paid the surly man his due, including a little extra by way of apology, but this hadn't stopped the thoroughly unpleasant man from muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "fat bitch".
Agrias, who was hardly in a carefree mood either, had promptly drawn her blade and some lightning induced property destruction had ensued.
That had both men laughing in spite of the copious bruises about their ribs, though the hilarity soon quieted and left behind a bleak, yawning silence. In an almost desperate attempt to fill it, Delita asked after Agrias, their old classmates from the Hokuten Academy, Alma, and baby Rachel. Ramza answered politely and concisely, though it almost seemed as though he were searching Delita's expression for something.
Signs of further treachery, perhaps?
Delita could hardly blame him.
But, when the Duke of Lionel spoke again, his words hit Delita like a pail of cold water.
"Do you really think you're as far gone as you say? Because I don't."
Had Ramza produced a magical stone that could turn men into demons of the same fell breed as the Lucavi, Delita would've been less astonished.
"…what?" he asked, shock nearly choking away his voice, while the revenant of Algus seemed similarly befuddled.
For some time, Delita could only regard Ramza in stupefaction. Granted, he knew the Ramza who'd walked away from the fires of Fort Zeakden was very nearly as naïve as the boy who'd unwittingly walked into them. Nearly, but not quite, for the Ramza who'd shed the raiment of the Hokuten and of House Beoulve had been tempered by battle and by hardship, had reconciled himself to the grim reality that it was not possible to take up blade or cause without the promise of regret, and that that mote of light reportedly within all human souls could, in fact, be snuffed out.
Yet, that never stopped him from trying to uphold the honor to which few even gave mere lip service, nor to do all he could to coax that mote into true radiance. And, despite the Duke of Lionel possessing the naïveté that lingered in such copiousness that he'd firmly believed he could prevail against the might of the corrupted lions and the tainted church, Delita was firmly convinced that Ramza was no idiot.
So, why had he affirmed a claim so utterly mystifying, and when he had seen all the evidence to the contrary before his eyes?
Delita's eyes strayed to Algus, who seemed to regain his equilibrium and now appeared quite delighted by these doubts, but the trance was broken when Ramza snatched his chin and their gazes met.
"Oh, believe me, you've done a lot I cannot condone," Ramza said bluntly. "But I'm hardly in a position to begrudge someone for having regrets. I have quite a few myself. I've killed many I wish I hadn't. Maybe there was some alternative I missed, or maybe there wasn't. Still, there have been times when I felt every bit as wretched a soul as the church claimed."
Here, Ramza paused, his eyes going distant and glassy as if beholding something only he could see and which brought him profound anguish.
"Aside from the Corpse Brigadiers, there were the bandits in Gariland and Dorter, the Baert Company mercenaries in Zaland and Goug, the Gryphon Knights in Lionel, the thieves in Gollund, the Wyvern knights in Yardow and Riovanes, the Nanten at Dugeura Pass and Fort Besselat, the Hokuten in Igros. Even those Nanten deserters at the Grogh Heights who'd figured my head would buy them a chance to go home to their families. It all seemed so…so needless. The bandits and thieves, whatever else they'd done, had had no part in triggering the War of the Lions or manipulating the outcome. The knights were protecting their lieges, not aware of how much blood was on their hands. Those deserters only wanted to go home and sought my blood out of desperation rather than malice. Again and again, I wondered if there was some way to have avoided all that killing, if there was some way to have avoided those battles, or talked my way past them. But, in the end, it dawned on me that there wasn't. Either there was no way, or there was no time. But, that didn't change the fact that all those people are dead, and that I failed to help them just as surely as I'd failed Teta."
Perhaps some lingering fraternal instinct was the cause, or maybe Delita had been jolted from his own morass of misery by Ramza's self-recriminations. Or, maybe both of them were a bit unhinged after all they'd been through.
Smart money's probably on option number three, Delita mused sourly.
Whatever the reason, and despite his entire body feeling like one enormous and ill-tended bruise, he rose to a sitting position and clapped a hand on Ramza's shoulder.
"How many of them would've killed you and not lost a wink of sleep over it?" he asked, though the answer was once more a mere formality. "Besides, you killed a several dozen, maybe a hundred or so, in self-defense. I have the blood of thousands, maybe tens of thousands, on my hands. Some I killed deliberately, and often when they had no chance of fighting back, and most I simply let fall by the wayside. It's doubtful you had an alternative, but I did."
"Did you? Could you have talked Goltana into offering terms to Larg?" Ramza asked pointedly. "Orlandu tried and failed, and he had over twenty years of loyal service to use as leverage."
"He might've gotten through to Goltana if I hadn't helped frame Orlandu for treason."
"Marcel was a lot of things, but he wasn't foolish. He must've had contingencies in place in case you didn't follow along with his scheme. Besides, I might not have saved Orlandu at all if you hadn't warned me about the plot to assassinate him, or been able to stop the Battle of Fort Besselat if you hadn't told me it was going to happen. Why would you have given out information that could save all those lives, including quite a few who were your enemies, if you were truly so corrupted?"
Delita had been about to say that such had been still another plot within yet another plot, which was true, but something still the words before they could pass his lips. Somehow, from some depth of himself which he could neither name nor explain, a flicker of rage crackled in Delita's being. Perhaps, in some pique of masochism, he longed for flagellation rather than absolution. Maybe he found himself thinking that Ramza was speaking too dismissively of the dead and of Delita's role in their deaths while trying to manufacture some act of conscience which Ramza, not Delita, had carried out. And, he still wasn't discounting the possibility that they'd both lost their minds.
But, the spark of rage wavered when he recalled that, naïve and reckless Ramza might be, he was neither cold-blooded nor callous. How could such be true when, by all accounts, Ramza had spent a huge portion of the war hazarding himself for the sake of others, some of whom had once been his enemies, going out of his way again and again to help strangers in peril?
No, there was a reason that he, of all people, had stopped Delita from hurling himself off that balcony and had not impaled him during his deranged assault.
Knowing Ramza, it'll be something cliché and painfully idealistic, Delita predicted, bitterly amused at the notion.
Ramza seemed to sense Delita's train of thought, for he clapped a hand on the king's shoulder and gave a firm squeeze.
"And, as for you not being as far gone as you think? I can feel it in my heart," Ramza affirmed.
Wow, I think I understated the case a little, Delita decided, inwardly grimacing at not only the sentiment but how Ramza's sentimental streak, his willingness to give the benefit of the doubt to even the most wretched, was thoroughly wasted on the bloody handed king.
"After all, it's still beating," Ramza went on, jolting Delita back to attention.
"Eh, what?" the king asked, flummoxed.
"Think about it. You'd barely had the crown on your head and the first thing you did was take the time to track me down. I genuinely expected that you wanted my head, and so did the others. I half expected that I'd have to give myself up to ensure they could leave safely. But, instead, you gave me and Alma new identities, a new home, and a chance to live normal lives. Why? You had a lot to lose and, as far as I can tell, nothing to gain by it. Especially if the church sniffs out who I really am, which is possible since we both know they're still looking for me. And, that's leaving aside how much I know about you, and how that could be used against you. So, why take the risk? Oh, you could've done it because you knew it was what Teta and Ovelia would've wanted, but there's more to it than that, isn't there?"
Delita had felt his lower jaw begin to droop earthwards as Ramza had spoken. Far from naïve or cliché, his words displayed a startlingly keen insight. Granted, Delita had more than once found himself thinking that he'd wanted Ramza effectively under house arrest both to secure his silence and as a final stroke in their unspoken contest about which of them had been in the right in their disparate endeavors to save Ivalice. After all, he'd been engaged in no small amount of self-flagellation over the subject, loathing himself for, albeit unspokenly, blackmailing Ramza into keeping the king's secrets in exchange for help marrying off Alma before she was discovered as being pregnant out of wedlock.
And, if he was being uncharacteristically honest, Delita would admit that the notion had taken root in his mind quickly enough. Especially given that, unless proof of death came to light, the church would never cease hunting for Ramza…and, therefore, could not devote themselves fully to keeping their supposed catspaw on their leash. But, there had been something else.
What is was, he could not name…or, more likely, he'd simply forgotten how. But, all he knew for sure was that he'd deduced that Ramza would try to escape to foreign shores to live out his life in exile, and Delita didn't want him to leave. Didn't want him to have to leave.
Some sort of chasm had opened within the core of his being once he'd deduced Ramza's intent to flee, and it was soon followed by the sense that, if nature was left to run its course, then that chasm would soon fill with the regret that would leech away the warmth of life as surely as did the grave.
And so, he'd taken a calculated, but still sizable, risk, to secure a new identity for a man he'd threatened to kill, and nearly killed by proxy several times, all because…he'd known he'd miss his old friend?
Even to his own ears, that sounded ridiculous, but it was all he could come up with. Though Delita had done much that even he considered deplorable, letting Ramza live as an exile in parts unknown and far from the land he'd fought and bled to save was more than even he could stomach.
Could some scrap of chivalry, of brotherhood, of love for his family in all but blood, have urged him to take that gamble in order to help the closest thing he had to kin, not only out of respect for the wishes of Ovelia and the late Teta, but because he'd wanted to give proper honors to the man who'd done even more than he to save Ivalice, and who he loved as a brother?
Maybe, but that fell far short of wiping away the veritable ocean of blood he could still feel upon his hands.
"Me saving your life, if I did even that much, does nothing for the lives I've taken," he pointed out morosely, already sensing Algus's cadaverous grin at these words.
"Oh? Well, what about the lives you've saved?" Ramza asked. "How about the lives that are better now than they were before the war?"
Undoubtedly, Ramza was referring to how, through his support of the burgeoning print trade and imminent literacy explosion, of the education of the masses so that they might rise above their meager births as Balbanes had done for Delita so long ago, not to mention the economic initiatives he'd set in motion by mediating negotiations between those not only on opposite sides of the war but those on opposite sides of the class divide, which saw Ivalice lurching its way towards a future where one's birth was no longer one's fate. But, Delita was no longer impressed by this grand accomplishment.
After all, from the first, it had been designed to marginalize the nobility who he'd held collectively responsible for Teta's death. He'd sought to make them dependent upon his will and good graces, with the only alternative being destitution. Granted, he could've simply confiscated their lands and wealth and then sent them to the gallows, especially those who'd supported Larg during the war, but he'd found it such a delightful irony to keep them around and exploit them instead. So, he'd watched as they ambled about in a maze of his own design until they either choked down their pride…or choked on it.
All he'd really done was stroke his own ego and glut his sadism, and he'd lost little time telling Ramza this.
Delita probably shouldn't have been surprised, but was, when Ramza was neither convinced nor deterred.
"Ah, so it's all just playacting, then?" Ramza asked, with palpable sarcasm. "Those refugees who felt contrite enough to work for the people they'd robbed, and just for bed and board? Those shopkeepers and merchants who found it in themselves to forgive, and even hire those refugees? Those nobles who agreed to partner with peasants, offering to outright sell their land for farming and mining so that Ivalice's economy can get back on its feet? Those teachers who are helping lower class children learn how to read, for the first time since anyone can remember? Those soldiers and knights who'd fought on opposite sides of the war, and who've come back together to make sure the country they fought for stays in one piece? Is it all just pageantry, then?"
Delita had been more than a bit startled to hear sarcasm out of the typically demure Ramza, but that surprise quickly became a mingling of perplexity and incredulity when he considered his old friend's words at greater length. Incredulity at how these agents in Ivalice's rebirth, many of whom would've impressed the righteous Balbanes and Orlandu, could be likened to such a mass of wretched duplicities and treacheries such as Delita, and then perplexity at what Ramza was getting at.
A bit too concussed to gather in the entirety of the riddle, not to mention his wits being askew all the more from Ramza's sarcasm, Delita pondered.
And, though his skull didn't appreciate having to think so copiously while nursing several concussions, answers came readily enough. One of the essential skills of a master manipulator and a deft liar was the ability to tell when others were being truthful, and when they were not. And, although many weren't nearly the open book that Ramza was, even the cagey sorts had tells and haptics that could unmask and undermine otherwise well-hidden deceits. Yet, as Delita looked back on those he'd dealt with as he'd cemented his early reign, he found these to be few.
He remembered Rolf, a pious refugee from Zeltennia who, like more than a few of those who'd been displaced by the drought, had had to violate more than a few tenants of his faith in order to avoid starvation. Yet, like many of the onetime refugees, he'd rediscovered contrition, and the courage to seek forgiveness, once his conscience was no longer drowned out by his rumbling stomach.
He remembered Penelope, or "Bunty" to her friends, who, like more than a few middle-class Lesalians, had learned a trade and built her own business, only to lose it when desperation drove the refugee hordes to smash her windows and loot her shop. But, once the dust had settled, she'd been eager, even enthusiastic, to build her business anew and, when several of the people who'd wronged her arrived, contrite and wishing to help, she'd but smiled and said "let's get to work".
He remembered Baron Smoit, a heavy-set nobleman from Gallione with a fondness for strong drink, boisterous laughter, and clapping people on the back until they could barely keep their feet. Despite his appearance, and his disconcerting bombast, he was a pragmatic and sharp-witted man, who had been quick to decide that aristocratic pride would prove little defense against bankruptcy, nor would it coax put food on tables or coin in the till. And so, he'd been quick to partner with Aeddan, an unofficial leader of Gallione's farming community, and Hevydd, a legend amongst miners and metalsmiths, and the three had used their connections to organize an effort to rebuild Gallione's economy, which was hard hit by war and flooding. Though all three men likely would've regarded such an alliance as an aberration but a few months prior, Delita knew the unlikely team to be amongst the most successful in the new Ivalice.
He remembered Jeanne, a well-read Lionel woman who'd been amongst the first to sign on with the now burgeoning schools which catered to children of humble birth. With the advent of the printing press, and how books had gone from costing a week's salary to costing a bit of pocket change, the prospects of Ivalice's future generations, once few and narrow, had become many and broad. And, the sudden surge of literacy had likely played a greater role in this phenomenon than anything Delita had done. Now, children once consigned to being farmers or miners simply because their forefathers had been, regardless of who liked it and who didn't, now had a myriad of choices for how they wanted to make their way in the world. And, even those who genuinely wanted to keep the trades of their forbearers were eager to learn, so that they might not merely go through generations old motions, but to learn the workings of soil, stone, and metal so that knowledge might allow success and prosperity where there'd once been merely anonymous drudgery. Delita remembered how more than a few of these children had written letters of gratitude to him and Ovelia and how, even though their spelling left something to be desired, they'd been heartened by the happily scrawled missives.
He remembered Dame Joyce, a Lionsguard knight from Lesalia, and Dame Birgitta, an Aegis Knight from Zeltennia. Like many of Ivalice's defenders, these veterans had fought alongside each other during the Fifty Years War, and had become good friends as they'd battled shoulder to shoulder against Ordalia. And, like more than a few of Ivalice's defenders, they'd found that the nightmare of war coming upon them again was made all the more heinous when the feud over the crown also put onetime brothers and sister-in-arms on opposite sides. Though many of the particulars were not known to Delita, he could guess at most when, following his release of the war's prisoners from the overflowing dungeons, Joyce and Birgitta had promptly sought each other out and, upon finding one another, had wept joyful tears as though they'd found again a sister long feared dead.
No, there had been no pageantry or schemes or duplicity in those stories, nor the hundreds of thousands of others like them. In each and all had been an uncharacteristic abundance of what had, customarily, been Ivalice's scarcest commodity.
Truth.
Somehow, recalling these moments, these truths, assuaged Delita's wounds. They did not take away the pain – if anything, it felt more acute than before – but it was almost as though, rather than clouding his mind, what he felt was slowly but surely jolting him to lucidity.
Yes, he had orchestrated these reconciliations, these partnerships, these reunions, and these healings.
But, he'd done so not out of love for his fellow Ivalicians, but contempt for those he'd blamed for his misfortunes. He hadn't done so to bridge the divide between those of humble and noble birth, but because he'd wanted the latter to be marginalized, humiliated, and brought low. He hadn't sponsored the education of the lower classes to give them a better future, nor had he brought back together Ivalice's defenders to mend old friendships as surely as to mend the kingdom, but to stroke his own ego and stamp his reign with an authority and legitimacy as to still the tongues of any who'd oppose him.
What the Ivalician people gave prayers of thanksgiving for, he had done out of vanity, selfishness, a lust for revenge, and a keenness to wrong and ruin those who'd wronged him…
…so, why was one he had wronged more than most, and whose former life he'd ruined with nary an ounce of compunction, sitting patiently alongside him, wearing an expression of concern rather than vengefulness? No less mystifying, why had he heard words of concern rather than condemnation from his onetime friend?
Why did he feel that Ramza had come not to lay low his betrayer, but to bear him up?
Perhaps the revenant of Algus had unraveled this peculiar riddle, for his cadaverous mouth contorted in a feral snarl, sending globules of blood and phlegm spraying the air. Yet, this macabre spectacle that personified all that Delita had done to defile his life was momentarily overshadowed when Ramza interposed himself between the gazes of the two nemeses.
"No," Delita said at last. "There was no pageantry in any of that. I may have set the stage, but I handed out no scripts."
For some reason, Ramza seemed to approve of this, though the why of it yet eluded Delita's once keen and fleetfooted mind. What did it matter if the stories had been real, for the tales of those who'd died were no less real than those who'd lived, and were more numerous. And, how could these stories of their brighter futures redress the road leading to it, which Delita had paved with corpses and mortared with innocent blood?
What did it matter?
When the question finally forced its way free of Delita's lips, however, Ramza was quick to say that it mattered a great deal.
"Does that surprise you?" he asked frankly, and Delita could only nod in surprise. "It shouldn't. After all, you were the one who seemed to think it mattered so much that I tried to help you save Teta, even though we failed."
"It did matter," Delita affirmed, surprising himself with his vehemence. "You, Alma, and Balbanes were probably the only people who've ever spoken for Teta. No one else had done that, ever. And…whatever else Teta's death may have been, it wasn't your fault."
Delita recalled, with bitter clarity, a time when he'd felt differently. Just after the terrible thunk of the crossbow quarrel piercing Teta's breast, still heady with horror and rage, he had vowed that, once Algus had joined his victim, then Ramza would share that same fate. Yet, even before the battle had ended, those enraged words had drifted away on the icy winds, borne away by realization that was every bit as cold.
Ramza had not been at fault, nor had he ever been.
Not unlike the ignominious brand of heresy, Delita's condemning words had fallen upon the former Beoulve's shoulders wrongly. Whether the words were sparked by the flames of his grief, or as an unwitting precursor to his life spent achieving calculated gains, of playing on the heartstrings of others as a bard plays upon a harp, Delita knew only that fresh revulsion welled in him at the recollection.
Yet, rather than being angered at Delita's outburst from that distant, terrible day, Ramza had been angered at himself. Angered over something that, even without hindsight's characteristically useless insights, could not, and should not, have been laid upon his shoulders.
Especially when he'd been very nearly alone in caring whether Teta lived or died, and hazarded his own life trying to save hers.
The words came awkwardly and haltingly when Delita tried to voice them, but voice them he did. And, much to his surprise, the Duke of Lionel seemed genuinely touched by…by what, precisely?
The admission that Delita had been wrong, and his words of contrition? His appreciation for Ramza's efforts, in spite of their mutual failure to avert tragedy?
Somehow, the word "forgiveness" sprang to mind.
It seemed absurd, for what happened had been beyond Ramza's control. And yet, the notion tickled and nagged and refused to go away until he finally gave it free rein.
And, to compound one absurdity with another, Ramza seemed almost happy to have been forgiven, as if some old wound that yet bled had finally begun to scab over.
Healing remained a distant prospect, perhaps, but something in those unlikely words had caused it to become attainable.
And, as though assuaging that wound had lent him strength, Ramza had been characteristically eager to reciprocate.
"It doesn't have to stay that way, you know," he began. "Your talk about how so much of what you've done was out of your own lust for revenge. And, honestly, I can see what you mean. But, I've also been in touch with my other companions, learning about just what was done. Whatever else you've done, and why, a lot of people have better lives ahead of them because of it. Those children learning how to read, those prisoners of war you allowed to go home to their families, those laws you passed to help end the years of poverty and starvation? Yes, they were done for the wrong reasons, but I can't turn a blind eye to the good that was achieved."
"So, what? It doesn't matter why it was done, what was going through my head? It doesn't matter that my motives were as base and selfish as Algus's?"
"Oh, it matters a lot. But, motivations can change. People can change. You can change." Seeing Delita's skepticism, Ramza met his old friend's gaze unflinchingly. "Think about it. If you really were so far gone as you think, why would any of what you've done even bother you? Why would you have helped me and my friends when you could've trussed us up to use as a bargaining chip against the church? Why would you have fallen in love with Ovelia, let alone regret how things stand between you two? If you were as vile and wicked as you claim, why would you feel so guilty that you'd want to die?"
Perhaps too weary and battered to vacillate, and too sick at heart for further deceptions, Delita considered Ramza's words. That his old friend had faith in those who'd gone astray was hardly surprising, but this display truly outstripped even Delita's most unlikely speculations.
"Teta has been dead for some time now, along with man who killed her," Ramza continued. "You wanted revenge on those who you blamed for it? Well, if you truly don't blame me, then I guess that means they're all gone. Now, it's time for both of us to move on. And, it's not just about what Teta would've wanted, if she were still here, but about the people above us right now. The people who have a bright future ahead of them, the people who lost everything during the wars and now have a chance to start over, the people who believe in you for making that happen…and, who are worried about you. Yes, you owe a debt to the dead, but they can wait to collect. You owe a different kind of debt to the people of Ivalice, and theirs is the better claim."
A sad smile crossed Ramza's lips as he finished.
"I think that, if Teta and father were here now, they'd say the same."
The reminder of his sister, and how horror-stricken she'd likely have been upon seeing what he'd done with, and to, her memory made Delita's eyes prickle, but the sensation passed as he wondered, truly wondered, if Ramza might be right.
He'd paved a long road to Hell, first with his good intentions and then his hubris, but what if he'd not reached the end after all? What if the tarnish upon his kingship, seen by so few and yet so malignant nonetheless, could yet be expunged? What if he could, truly, rectify the atrocities he'd committed and make that better future for Ivalice a reality rather than a convenient mask for his pride and vengefulness?
His gaze met Ramza's as the other man rose to his feet, seeing that the Duke of Lionel was much different than the youngest son of House Beoulve, and yet not. He was still soft-hearted, eager to see the good in most, keen to lend aid even when it could not profit him.
And, much to his surprise, he was still Delita's friend. No less bewildering, even though Ramza did not say it explicitly, his earlier words of faith and the brotherly love upon his face made it clear.
Delita should've been everything Ramza despised. A murderer, a liar, a manipulator, a man who would exploit the pride of the prideful and the timidity of the timid to achieve his ends, and who'd cared not for who was left broken and bleeding along the way.
And yet, for all that, and for all Delita had done to Ramza, costing him home and name…
…Ramza had forgiven him.
Not with the naivete of youth, but after seeing what good Delita had, almost unwittingly, done and deciding that, for all the much and mire that it had emerged from, it was a work worth completing.
Finishing that work, of making Ivalice a place where those of high and lowly birth alike might find happiness, would not vindicate the falsely condemned Ramza nor absolve Delita of his many sins. But, something more than the accounting he, like all men, must give after their final breath, suddenly weighed upon his mind. It was a realization that was every bit as heavy as the more than a dozen pounds of gold and jewels that made up his crown.
If the work of making Ivalice a better kingdom did not succeed, then all those deaths would have been for nothing, as would all that hard work and those aspirations he recalled earlier.
And that, much like Ramza having to live the life of an exile away from the kingdom he'd fought to save, was more than even Delita's askew mental compass could abide. It was enough to grant him lucidity at last, to steady his shoulders and to nerve his arm.
"Come on," Ramza said, holding out one hand. "We both set out to save Ivalice, and there's a lot to be done before we're finished. Let's get to work."
Delita wrapped trembling fingers about the proffered hand and, with a strong tug, the Duke of Lionel pulled him onto his feet. The chamber lurched about him for a moment, walls and floor shuffling like a deck of cards in a gambling warren. Yet, eventually, the world steadied, along with Delita's mind.
Yes, he was far from the angelic monarch many believed him to be, but he could still do right by his people.
Maybe that would be enough to bring solace to those he'd killed and win their pardon, or maybe it wouldn't. For now, it would have to be enough.
The revenant of Algus continued to defiantly spew vitriol, not all of which Delita could refute, but the words no longer had the power to unman him.
Offering a grateful nod to Ramza, he turned to leave the decimated warren when the Duke of Lionel suddenly called out to him.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked, pointing at a section of stone that had been uprooted from the floor to form a mound just over waist high. Embedded in it was a sword, likely the same one that Deltia had snatched up amidst his derangement. Delita had half expected to behold one of the dreaded fell swords favored by Dark Knights, perhaps a Deathbringer which brought the chill of the grave to those who killed in the name of truth and justice.
Appropriate for both the killer and the victim, in the case of what had nearly happened in this ruined warren.
It wasn't a Deathbringer. Indeed, it wasn't even a fell sword.
When he saw what his hands had chanced upon during that madness, his lower jaw dropped.