Co-Author's Note: THIS IS ANOTHER VERY IMPORTANT NOTICE! To reiterate, Interlude 4 occurs immediately, both in placement and in the actual passage of time for the characters, after the events of Interlude 3. That means it also takes place just after Chapter 17: To Court a Duchess. Once more, the first ball is over, total debacle, and Ramza figures that Delita might need an intervention. Izlude hasn't arrived yet, so Ramza has no idea about Izlude or the Pisces Stone. Now that that's done, enjoy!

Interlude 4, Part 1: To Be Judged, To Be Absolved

Gleaming in the sparse light of the chamber, and seeming to offer illumination enough to drive back the thick shadows, was a blade famous from Riovanes to Warjilis, from Igros to Sar Ghidos, and everywhere in between, and which had been the subject of campfire tales, bard songs, and the works of warrior poets since before either Ramza or Delita drew their first breath.

Excalibur.

For a long moment, Delita could only stare, flabbergasted at this latest irony that the capricious fates had seen fit to weave. He had assumed that Excalibur, reputed to be a legendary knight's sword which could only be wielded by a true heir to the throne, had vanished along with its owner, the famed Thunder God Cid, when he'd taken his leave of the war-torn kingdom to spend what days remained to him in peace. It would surely be foolish of him to have the sword sent back to Ivalice, where nary a glance might be enough to know its name and raise questions about its sender, who'd surely wished to remain anonymous in his declining days.

And yet, how could one mistake the winding plume of orange flame that danced over the blade, the tendril of black ivy which the flames licked, the quillions like the rays of the sun, or the smiling visage of a nameless god of war upon the cross-guard?

And, more than that, Delita's own recollections argued that this was no counterfeit.

Once again, Delita's mind wandered back to distant times, and even more distant innocence. He recalled how, during one of Orlandu's visits to Igros many years ago, he and Ramza had chanced upon the blade of Thunder God Cid. At five years of age, neither boy had, or could have, truly understood the grave weight of memory and duty that came with wielding any blade, let alone the finest in the realm. To them, it had been an element from childhood tales, come to life by some unknown whimsy of fate, to delight the two boys as they wielded it to vanquish imagined foes…

…well, they would have if they could've lifted it.

Longer than they were tall, and much heavier than the wooden blades of their customary derring-do, it took every ounce of their young muscles just to get it off the floor, and then by mere inches. Yet, manage it they did, and familiar as any of many winters or of few with the sword's legend, they'd promptly decided that a sword of kings finding two worthies was a matter that could only be decided through battle.

Their battle came to a rather anticlimactic end, however, when Balbanes and Orlandu, having heard the clatter of their previous attempts to lift the blade, had charged in and snatched it away with galling ease. Balbanes's rebuke had been more than enough to leave the two boys in tears, but Orlandu had been amused, and very nearly impressed at their shenanigans.

"There's far more to wielding a sword than knowing when to thrust and when to parry," he had said. "But, I have faith you'll learn it. Learn well from your father, for you'll find no better teacher, and I hope I'm there to see your success."

SSSSSS

He'd said it so causally that even one older might not guess that he'd soon journey to the front lines of the Fifty Years War, from which few returned. No, both boys were awed by the idea that they might one day grow up and wield such a fabulous blade.

My, how the times of have changed, Delita mused sadly, all too aware of just how much else there was to wielding a sword…and how he'd misused those that had come to his hand over the past few years.

How the sword had been sent back to Ivalice, without anyone tipping to Orlandu still being alive, he could not guess. Yet, apparently, this blade had arrived and been hidden in this last bastion of the crown. As bizarre as that was, that it had found Delita's hand when he was trying to hack his way through the revenant of Algus, and then Ramza, was more mystifying still.

Yet, whether unconsciously or out of some remnant of childhood wonderment, he found his hand reaching out to grasp the sword's hilt and…

…and, what?

His hand froze in midair, and he regarded the blade with some trepidation. Yes, the sword was reportedly the blade of the king, but he had some ways to go before he could even conceive of his worthiness to wield it.

And, the day where Ivalice was worthy of having such a magnificent weapon amongst her defenses was also a long time off.

Yet, surely such a blade should not be left in such an inglorious resting place. Perhaps it should be returned to its rightful owner, so that he might be able to defend himself if malicious visitors came knocking?

But, then again, had Orlandu arranged for it to come here because he considered the people of Ivalice, as flawed and petty as they were, to be the blade's rightful owners?

Perhaps. Though far more practical and world wise than the naïve Ramza, the loyalties of the Swordsaint and the Duke of Lionel aligned quite perfectly.

Again, the trembling hand came up. As it did, the crowd of specters from earlier, who'd acted as a veiled audience during Ramza's intervention, as they suddenly rippled into being around him like fog rising from the cobblestones.

Delita's mouth went dry when he saw Teta amongst their number.

Perhaps the revenant of Algus had seen her as well, for his aspersions had grown viler, and came more swiftly, mocking him for even thinking he could wield a sword of kings and reminding him, in sickening detail, just how he'd dishonored Teta's memory with the blood he'd shed in her name.

Yet, through it all, Teta showed no sign of sharing the sentiment, nor did she echo his condemnations.

Indeed, she was as silent as…well, as silent as the grave.

And, though there was so much Delita wanted to say to her – to beg her forgiveness, to forswear his Machiavellian proclivities, to swear he would help Ramza and Alma in their hour of need with no thought to calculated gain – he was no less mute as the words became lodged in his throat.

Yet still, there was no rebuke. Instead, she gave him a small, sad smile, as though sorry she could not have aided him in this dark hour. Then, her gaze drifted to the sword and back to Delita before she gave an approving nod.

Ramza's hand clapping on his shoulder echoed this small sign of approval.

The implication was obvious, and yet it left Delita's mind awhirl.

If Ramza holding no malice towards him had left him stunned, Teta apparently forgiving him as well had left him truly thunderstruck.

How this could be, Delita could barely even guess at. And yet, with the balm of Ramza's absolution to shore up his once frayed mind, he could see that his eyes had not cheated him…

…beyond showing him a room full of dead people, that is.

If he had forgotten who Teta had been during the past few years, seeing her ethereal form had reminded him.

She had been the unheard voice whose letters had steeled his will to prevail at the Hokuten Academy, where his excellence was as unwelcome as his lowly birth.

She had been the warmth that greeted him when he returned to Igros, making the castle that could never truly be home seem truly welcoming nonetheless.

She had been the brave soul who had given her life, even as she herself lay bleeding out her last moments, when Fort Zeakden's fiery destruction drew near.

The last of his blood kin, and who had always put others, him in particular, before herself. The adoring little sister who had been near to bursting with pride at the news that her brother had graduated with honors from the Academy, his instructors pinching their noses shut through every minute of it. The woman who'd cut short her own life to save her kin, blissfully unaware that she was saving the life of a monster…

…she seemed to catch his thought, for she raised an admonishing finger and then directed his gaze to Excalibur's blade, which yet retained an almost mirror-like sheen despite the clouds of dust created by his maddened assault.

Gulping audibly, Delita gazed upon the monster in the mirror.

What he saw was very different.

He did not see what the Ivalician people saw, the fairy-tale prince sprung from the pages to set right a floundering realm.

And yet, nor did he see the perverted mockery of a man whose villainy had outshone the callous vainglory of Ruvelia, Larg, Goltana, and Marcel before him.

He saw, simply, a man.

Shoulders slumped, head bowed, eyes rimmed with redness and shadows.

Bloodied, bruised, his face scarred by battles recent and distant, wounds outward and inward that yet bled.

The green orbs, however, proved the most telling.

In those green orbs, he could see many things. Follies, cruelties, perverted ambitions, and tainted pride. He could see them all, and that they had all fallen away.

In their place, he saw a man, wearied and sick at heart. Flagellated by his own thoughts, his own words, and, at times, his own hand. A man who now felt the weight of his crown, and the weight of his regrets with it, as though the brightness of its gold and the luster of its jewels sought to crush the skull it sat upon as much as to dazzle any onlookers.

He saw a man who had been battered and trampled by his own wrongdoings, and yet he saw a glimmer of something else.

Some mote of light, kindled by Ramza and Teta, that yet persisted amidst the gloom. One remnant of himself that, even now and in spite of everything, yet longed for what he had sought and lost track of along his bloody journey.

A world where Teta's tragedy would not be repeated.

Yes, he had dragged that vision through the mud. Yes, he had despoiled Teta's memory by condemning people like her to death while waiting for those who would, posthumously, shoulder the blame to dig themselves a deep enough grave. Yes, he had betrayed the man whom he'd professed to love as a brother time and again.

Yes, the legend he'd meticulously woven to enchant the people of Ivalice, born high and humble alike, was one of fraudulence, muck, and mire…

…but, did it have to remain so?

Yes, he had paved a long road to Hell, and walked far along it, but what if he had not reached the end as he had supposed? What if that mote of light, that remnant of his desire to create a better world, might yet guide him back from the edge of the abyss?

Ramza had faith that such could be so, and it seemed Teta did as well.

The only question was whether Delita shared that same conviction.

Not as a king, but simply as a man who, anguished by the consequences of his callousness and pride and wishing he'd acted more wisely, had been offered a second chance.

It seemed impossible, and yet the evidence was, quite literally, staring back at him, as were those he'd wronged, living and otherwise, and to whom he'd owe a penance either in this world or the next.

And, though few would know of this strange scene, the eyes of the people who still looked to him to continue guiding them to a better future were felt no less acutely, for they too were owed a penance by the king who had gained his crown by upending their lives.

But, first, Delita had to decide for himself whether to follow that tiny spark back from the abyss, to find out whether this second chance would be better spent than his first.

And, as he took one last look at the abyss of madness and despair that yawned wide before his mind's eye, he saw that that choice was no choice at all.

Drawing in a deep breath, and half-expecting the blade to be stuck tight, Delita grasped Excalibur's hilt and pulled.

To his amazement, it slid free as easily as it might've from its sheath.

Another audience might've been awed by the sight, likening it to a miracle and the coming of a Once and Future King.

This audience of ghosts, however, was silent and impassive…

…though, compared to the last few days of haunting recrimination, that was a marked improvement.

Had they decided to reserve judgement, and see just what this king did with the kingdom he'd bought with their lives? Or, had Ramza's impassioned argument given them pause and they wanted to see if the Duke of Lionel might have judged wisely?

Delita could not say.

All he saw was Teta's specter, smiling through her ethereal tears as she vanished.

The rest of the ghosts followed, though Delita could still feel their eyes upon him. Perhaps he would until his dying day, but at least they were more at peace than they had been but mere hours ago.

Perhaps, someday, Delita might even say the same for himself.

For now, he turned to confront the revenant of Algus who, abandoned by his spectral host and seeming very nearly afraid, was drawing away but still flinging insults all the while. Delita regarded him with pity, all too aware of how, if he hadn't been reminded of Algus, he might've become him.

Surely, that warranted an end to the torment of undeath.

With one well practiced slash, he invoked the Holy Sword skill of Divine Ruination and a pillar of heavily radiance shone down from ceilingward, bathing the revenant in light so intense that the stones beneath him were seared black.

When the light dissipated, Algus was gone.

"What was that?" Ramza asked, sounding a touch nervous.

"Algus Sadalfas has just been killed for the third time, some people have no manner of luck at all," Delita replied, with eerie casualness, though he sobered a moment later. "Let's go. There are many ghosts here. We should let them rest."

The two men then took their leave of the decimated war council chamber, climbing the hidden stairs back to the castle. What would happen next, neither could say, though Delita was certain of one thing.

Whatever else happened, he owed Ramza his life and his sanity. And, knowing his old friend, he'd consider keeping both to be the best form or compensation.