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.

42. Children of Calamity

Chapter 42: Children of Calamity

A/N: Hi, everyone, we're back! As always, sorry for the delay. My co-writer and I still have difficulty deciding exactly how to proceed and finally wrap up the story but we're doing our best to make sure it has a happy ending for everyone :). Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible. On another not, we like to thank everyone who's been patiently following our story for the last few years and left reviews. Please continue to let us know how you think and suggestions are always welcomed!

In much the same way lonely children with no family of their own might dream of discovering royal blood in their veins and living in a castle, people of all ages and backgrounds might dream of living in, or at least visiting, the isle of gold and marble that was Lesalia.

And, on the surface, why should they not?

Being the political, economic, and cultural center of the kingdom of Ivalice, the city would seem like a magnificent jewel box, artfully crafted to house, protect, and exhibit a trove of treasures the likes of which boggled the imaginations of those who lived well away from its well-manicured streets.

For artists, it offered the chance of a "big break", as they called it. The numerous art museums, concert halls, and theaters, not to mention the plethora of ambitious agents and eager patrons, promised fierce competition amongst would-be artists, musicians, playwrights, and actors with fame and fortune being the prize for those who outshone their peers.

For those skilled with their hands, there was the chance to learn how to work metal into fine weapons and armor, to craft glittering jewelry and cut lustrous gemstones, to work cloth and leather into garb both practical in purpose and pleasing to the eye, or shape stone and wood into wondrous architecture. Schools dedicated to these crafts were abundant, as were professionals in these markets who were eager to take on able apprentices. And, naturally, buyers were plentiful if one had the skill to attract their eye and impress them enough for money to change hands.

Even those who sought humbler livings – such as shopkeepers, gardeners, manservants, maidservants, footmen, valets, tutors, nannies, chefs, and coachmen – could find a billet catering to the whims of wealthy employers, many of whom could be quite generous with gratuities.

And, of course, most nobles of ample purse and lofty opinions of themselves were keen to at least have a presence in Lesalia. Even if the stately manors were vacant at least as often as not, being able to buy and maintain a home, second or otherwise, in the crown jewel of Ivalice was considered an indelible mark of prestige amongst the nobility. Not only did this offer ready access to the finest of everything – be it the arts, crafted goods, or eager servants – but it also offered a chance to have one's finger on the very pulse of Ivalice's governance. Secrets changed hands like coin in Lesalia, and one who discovered valuable information first could use it to great effect.

Fortunes could be increased or lost. Rivals could be cowed or ruined. The ladder of success could be ascended or fallen off of. If knowledge was, indeed, power, then those who knew how to acquire and exploit it would fit right in in Lesalia.

So, indeed, it seemed that practically everyone wanted to live in, or at least see, Lesalia.

And as for Queen Ovelia, who had arrived in Lesalia on the arm of her handsome king some months prior?

Obviously, she could never admit it publicly, but she hated Lesalia and, with but a handful of exceptions, she hated the people who lived there.

True, this was a less-than-befitting sentiment for a God-fearing woman, or as the queen of those same people, especially over so trite a vice as gossip, but moments where she simply didn't care arose with ever greater frequency.

This was one such moment.

Having practically been raised in Orbonne Monastery, surrounded by pious elders who had embraced lives of poverty, chastity, and obedience, it had come as quite a shock when she'd learned the sheer depths of pettiness, frivolity, and callousness that persisted beyond the walls of that lonely and isolated cloister.

The warring dukes who'd allowed tens, and then hundreds of thousands of the people they'd professed to be fighting for to wither from starvation and disease, not only because aiding them would drain resources from the war effort but also because there was no aid to give. And, because openly admitting to such would be a sign of weakness which they – or, at least, their pride – could ill afford, countless unknown souls were lost, consigned to lonely, unmarked graves, until Delita, who was at least as guilty as the warring dukes, added their corpses to the pile.

Raised in a life of humility and compassionate by her very nature, Ovelia had been flabbergasted at the idea that anyone could decide that it was better to appear cruel than weak. And she'd been shocked all the more when she'd realized just how easily, and how often, such a choice was made by those who'd occupied or warred over thrones long before Larg, Goltana, or Delita had done so.

Thinking about the latter pair, both of whom wanted to wield her as they would a scepter, caused a dull ache in her heart. At one time, that pain would've been far more acute; fate spitting in the face of her life of loneliness that should have prevented such a calamity as the War of the Lions. But, over time, the pain had lessened.

Not because the tragedy of the war had eased – for though portents of mending abounded, signs of the harm which had been done would likely linger after Ovelia herself had gone to her grave – nor because the nightmares had stopped, which they hadn't. And, it certainly wasn't because Ovelia had felt the wounds she'd taken to heart and mind finally beginning to heal.

Instead, by contrast, she felt almost numb.

It was as if some part of her, so wearied of pain and heartache, had chosen to stop feeling the pain by ceasing to feel much of anything at all.

A handmaiden of hers, an elderly woman who'd reportedly buried the last of her kin days before the war ended, had colorfully described that state as "having no more shits to give"…

…which must've indeed been the case, considering that she'd used those very terms in front of the queen, and yet looked too mentally and emotionally spent to even care.

Pity had urged Ovelia to ignore this effrontery, as having the woman expelled from her service would mean sending her to a "home" which was little more than a mausoleum to a family that should've lived to bury her rather than the other way around. But, a new, much more jaded inner voice wondered if having her thrown out of Delita's castle might prove to be a favor.

Ovelia hadn't been able to make the decision immediately, for she'd been too busy wondering if her future might be staring back at her through the old woman's dull, lifeless eyes.

Oh, granted, most who saw her would never have guessed at her inner pain. She'd managed to conjure the memory of a smile when she saw Agrias again and met little Rachel, as well as to build a convincing facsimile of an encouraging smile for Alma when the prospect of being discovered pregnant out of wedlock loomed large. But, though she did feel something akin to relief that her friends had managed to survive the war, that Agrias had found a family and life outside her knighthood and Alma might yet escape scandal and rediscover love, Ovelia's smiles never quite reached her eyes.

Perhaps they never would again.

Even if the full details could never, ever be made public, she could see there was no small amount of romance in the two women's stories, even if both were entwined with tragedy. Agrias's fateful mission to escort Ovelia from Orbonne had led to her discovering the very church to which she had pledged her loyalty was rank with corruption and that the princess she loved like a sister was no more than a pawn.

And that that "pawn" had abandoned her guardian and friend out of desperation to keep what was left of her life. From what Ovelia had been able to glean, all of that had undermined Agrias's faith, both in God and in herself, and a moment of mutual weakness had left her with child, out of wedlock, by a man she'd known for mere weeks and who was hunted by church and state alike. And yet, rather than abandon her and his illegitimate daughter, Ramza had stood by them both and had proven himself a loving husband and father.

In the unlikely event that the story could be told, it would likely be regarded as a romance for the ages.

For Alma, her story was deeply bittersweet. Trying to help her fugitive brother, she had been abducted by his pursuers and, in a somewhat hare-brained scheme to win her freedom, had attempted to seduce her captor, the Templar Izlude. Yet, fate had proved most capricious when the pair, in truth, fell in love and Alma herself came within inches of convincing Izlude of the rightness of her brother's cause. But, where Alma might've stolen away one of the Templar's finest, she instead had had to watch her first love die in her arms and, upon learning she carried his child, was forced to try and pass it off as another's.

Lady Anne could not have written a more poignant tragedy.

Part of Ovelia, a part she had found harder and harder to hear lately, had felt joy for Agrias, sorrow for Alma, and relief that that latter had found it in herself to fall in love again. She knew that both having had emerged from the War of the Lions and yet had the prospect of happy futures before them should have made her happy, but what happiness she felt for them was little more than a memory, edged with bitterness.

And envy.

She had once believed that she was in love with Delita, and that her affections were returned. She had grieved with him for the death of Teta, for how he had been little more than a pariah amongst those he wished to call his brothers-in-arms, and she was all too aware of how the revelations of her own origins painted them in eerily similar light.

Now, she grieved for the death of that same illusion.

She would not have Agrias's happy ending, nor even Alma's chancy but hopeful one. And, though she knew it numbered among the Seven Deadly Sins for good reason, she felt little more than envy when she considered how her friends had found the happiness that had so thoroughly eluded her.

Much like a painter gone blind or a composer gone deaf, she could remember where in her heart had once been the ability to find happiness, or at least cause to persevere, but all she could touch now was only a memory. And, ever since the revelation of the false identity she'd unknowingly worn all her life, and the false face Delita had beguiled her with, that memory had begun turning to ash in her mouth.

Then, the ashes had settled in her gut, leaving behind a void in her heart.

She sometimes found herself wondering, though in a distant and absent fashion, if some of the overdressed, swaggering peacocks around her were similarly numb. How many of them partook of decadent cuisine, suffocated themselves in extravagant clothes, and galivanted about between parties, museums, and the performing arts to fill some hole in their hearts?

Probably quite a few, though the notion of delving into such a mystery died out quickly.

Oblivious to her grim introspections, a gaggle of those same peacocks were clucking away over some tidbit or other while Ovelia, unnoticed, sauntered past.

When she caught a snatch of what they were saying, however, she jerked to a halt.

"So, have you heard anything about that girl the king took in?"

Ovelia blinked, stupefied, and then turned back to the gaggle. What girl had Delita taken in, and when?

Rather than give voice to these questions, however, she simply moved in a bit closer to the group and listened. After all, if there was one thing about Lesalian gossips that Ovelia had learned, it was that the best way to learn something from them was to not interrupt.

So long as you were within earshot of them, you could hear everything you could possibly want to know…along with everything you didn't want to know.

She gave the group a cursory examination. There were four of them, all clearly nobles. Two men and two women, though none of whom she knew by name. One of the men looked to be in his mid to late twenties, had a rather athletic build, and a pair of sweeping mustaches that looked as if he groomed and waxed them with the sort of dedication a craftsman might devote to his vocation. The other man was perhaps in his mid to late thirties and regarded both ladies with a hungry eye…which was all the more disturbing considering one of the ladies looked to be half his age and the other looked twice his age. She promptly nicknamed him Shivers, after the sensation his lascivious gaze caused to run up and down her spine.

One of the women, and here Ovelia was speaking in the purely technical sense, looked to be in her late teens, if even, and whose low-cut dress made Ovelia wonder just how she'd been able to gallivant about with no chaperone in sight. The other woman was a matronly figure, likely in her early to mid-sixties, and was constantly squinting at whomever was speaking through a pair of opera glasses.

"Not much, I'm afraid," Low-Cut admitted. "I heard tell it was actually Chancellor Olan who found her, in those horrid squats outside the city."

If Ovelia wasn't paying attention before, she was now. She had noticed that Olan, along with Balmafula and Delita's former squad mates from the then-Hokuten Academy had been sent off on some errand which no one seemed to have known anything about. She'd mentioned this to Agrias the last time they'd met, and her former bodyguard had found the news deeply alarming for some reason.

Could this mysterious errand have been to find the girl? If so, why would Delita go to such trouble? And, could it relate to why Agrias seemed worried enough to ask if Ovelia still carried the knife she'd given her former charge when they'd briefly met again in Zeltennia?

"Those filthy warrens?" Opera Glasses exclaimed in disbelief. "Why didn't His Majesty have them torn down sooner? I mean, haven't they been empty for weeks?"

"I did hear that he ordered them torn down recently," Mustaches chimed in, "but nobody seems to know why he waited so long, or why he suddenly changed his mind."

"Do you think this girl has anything to do with it?" Low-Cut asked.

"It's certainly possible," Shivers said. "The king orders the squats torn down, and the chancellor, of all people, fishes the girl out of there just before the decree is supposed to go into effect?"

Could that be the connection? Ovelia did think it might be plausible that, if Delita knew or suspected that the girl was in those shanty towns, then he'd want her found before they were torn down. Except, if he had simply waited, she likely would've gone to ground, or even been killed in the demolition.

So, Delita wanted her found, alive, and brought to him. But, why?"

"But, who is this girl?" Opera Glasses asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Mustaches admitted. "All I really know is that, if what I've heard is true, then she's lucky to be alive. Some of my friends saw her as the chancellor carried her into the city, and they swear up and down that she was stricken with the Consumption."

"You can't be serious!" Opera Glasses sounded very nearly panicked. "If it were true, the chancellor risked getting himself, and half the city, infected by bringing her in here!"

"That was my first thought," Mustaches replied. "I never, ever thought I'd be glad to have ended up spending the day with my wife's mother when she was in…a foul temper. But, it gets even stranger! My friends say that the girl was taken to Lord Nelson's practice and, when the king went in and brought her out, she looked fine."

"…so, your friends were mistaken when they said she had the Consumption?" Low-Cut asked.

"Maybe, but what if they weren't?" Mustaches suggested. "What if Lord Nelson actually cured her?"

"But, that's impossible!" Opera Glasses sounded flabbergasted, and Ovelia shared the sentiment. "There is no cure for the Consumption."

"Actually, I did overhear Sister Agnes saying that she did see signs that the girl had had the Consumption," Shivers cut in. "My curiosity got the better of me, so I asked her to elaborate and…"

"And, it didn't go well?" Low-Cut asked in a snarky tone.

"She was aghast that I'd been "eavesdropping"," Shivers said, affronted at the recollection. "She slapped me across the face and screeched "Unacceptable!" What's "unacceptable" is that I came away from the blow with nothing to show for it. I mean, if Lord Nelson can cure the Consumption…"

"Then the nouveau riche has something else they can lord over us," Opera Glasses groused. "Wonderful. As if it wasn't bad enough that I had to throw a party for that Minister of the Treasury, who's been a baron for the better part of a month. My family was governing Yardow when his forefathers were bedding their own mothers!"

"That gives me a thought, actually," Low-Cut spoke up. "Do you think that girl could be the king's…?"

"Bastard daughter?" Opera Glasses suggested.

"Mistress?" Shivers offered, promptly validating Ovelia's choice of nicknames.

""Mistress"?!" Mustaches sounded aghast. "If the description I have is to be trusted, she's barely out of her nappies!"

"And, your point is?" Shivers seemed unimpressed by the disgusted glares leveled in his direction. "He wouldn't be the first to like his conquests…young and tender."

"Apparently, that Minister isn't the only one with an unsavory history," Low-Cut cringed. "Ugh! Just being in the same room as you makes me feel like I need a bath!"

"Splendid idea!" Shivers' lewd grin broadened alarmingly. "I think I'll be joining you."

"Your uncouth words to a noble lady besmirch us all!" Mustaches roared. "To say nothing of your vile imprecations towards our king!"

"Oh, quit being so melodramatic!" Shivers said dismissively. "Besides, "vile"? Our king is still quite young, and what man of his age and…charm wouldn't have a fine selection of lady friends? And, he wouldn't be the first to…explore the vintages, if you take my meaning."

"You're beginning to make me feel ill!" Opera Glasses, indeed, looked rather green.

"You're beginning to make me feel quite enraged!" Mustaches looked very much like he meant it.

"You lot clearly aren't getting enough…attention from your spouses," Shivers condescended. "Not that I'm one to talk, of course. Mine ceased to please me years ago."

"Alright, that does it!" here, Mustaches tore off one of his gloves and slapped it across Shivers's cheek hard enough to the leave the reddening impression of a handprint behind. "Your insults, slights, and uncouth words against king, fair ladies, and your wife are beyond toleration! We meet on the field of honor!"

Shivers did not look impressed. His lewd grin instead took on a darker cast that sent more, and very different, shivers going up Ovelia's spine.

"Well, if you insist," Shivers said, not sounding the least bit worried. "I'm sure you've got a lady friend or two that I can have as…spoils, should I win? I have more than enough that you can help yourself to, if you get lucky…in more ways than one."

If looks could kill, Mustache's answering glare would've incinerated Shivers on the spot.

The pair of would-be duelists then left the gaggle, Mustaches with a seething rage readily apparent in his audible stomping and fierce glower. Shivers, by contrast, gave only the impression of languorous indifference, as if he were either supremely confident in his chances of winning or cared little about the chance of death so long as it provided some new and gratifying novelty. No less curious, the implication that only one of them would be returning seemed to make little impression on the two women who, after disgustedly regarding the more lascivious of the pair for a moment, went right back to their gossip.

"Well, now that it's just the adults in the room, do you believe that girl could be the king's?" Low-Cut asked.

"I can't say," Opera Glasses admitted. "Reportedly, there's volumes and volumes dedicated to determining whose child is whose and whose parents are whose, all of which you can tell by studying the faces. But I doubt I have the head for it. Still, if what I've heard about the girl is correct, she would've been born before the king even met the queen."

"Ah, so there's no extramarital affair at play?" Low-Cut sounded disappointed. "Pity, I always did find those so intriguing, especially when they involve the last person you'd expect."

"And here I was thinking there were adults in this room," Opera Glasses complained.

"Oh, come now!" Low-Cut groused. "Don't tell me you don't enjoy reading Lady Anne's tales of loveless marriages and affectionate affairs."

"I most certainly do not enjoy reading Lady Anne's treatises on adultery," Opera Glasses sounded insulted at the idea that she might read such books.

"I asked you not to tell me that," Low-Cut answered, smirking.

"Could you possibly be any droller?" Opera Glasses asked, the question sounding rhetorical.

"If I put my mind to it, yes," Low-Cut returned.

"Can't say that surprises me," Opera Glasses gave a rattling sigh. "Still, whoever this girl is, she must be important to the king. Why else would he put her up in the same bedroom the former Prince Orinas used before he was exiled? Aside from the royal bedchambers, that's the finest room in the castle."

"A valid point," Low-Cut admitted. "I do wonder if, assuming she is the king's child, whether he plans to take her in. Formally, that is. I don't care how solicitous he is with the queen, that is going to be an awkward conversation!"

At that point, Ovelia decided she'd heard enough. If anything, she'd heard far too much. A truism about Lesalian gossips was that, in many ways, if you saw one then you've seen them all. Every one of them wanted to know this insipid, embarrassing bit of tittle-tattle about this person or that family, for reasons which were still nebulous to Ovelia. The gossips also delighted in spreading their findings, usually with embellishments ranging from incidental to fanciful to malicious.

Besides, the mention of Lady Anne Allimac, an infamous purveyor of fiction, had cut a bit close to the bone.

Ovelia had never heard about the deeply controversial authoress until very recently, not the smallest reason being that her work was the opposite, the very and exact opposite, of what would be deemed appropriate reading material at a monastery. Indeed, it was apparently a matter of debate just who Lady Anne was, as no one seemed to know if she was a "lady" in truth or simply a self-styled one. At least as many argued whether "Lady Anne Allimac" was her real name or a nom de plume, or "pen name", as such was reportedly common practice amongst artists who wished to practice their craft without forfeiting their privacy. Still, no one could deny that her work, which was infamously salacious, could excite some and rile up many others.

One of Ovelia's handmaidens had been leafing through such a volume, and became surprisingly evasive when she had asked what the book was about. When Ovelia asked a sassy, but good-natured maid the same question, she'd gotten a rather memorable answer rife with what the literary crowd referred to as "spoilers".

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young girl who fell madly in love with a dashing prince. Unfortunately for her, the prince was already in love with someone else, who herself was already married despite being in love with someone else. And the man she was in love with, who was also married, was in love with another woman who was not only dead but was too enamored with being a free-wheeling bachelorette to have returned his affections anyway. And they all lived unhappily ever after. The end."

Morbid curiosity eventually convinced Ovelia to discreetly acquire a copy and leaf through it behind closed doors. Suffice to say, the details had not made the story any happier.

Whether Lady Anne was arguing against the practice of arranged marriages, of which there were several amongst the unhappy protagonists, or marriages in general, of if she might've been issuing a warning about how first impressions were deceptive at best, or showcasing how fond people are of coveting the unobtainable while turning a blind eye to what they do have, Ovelia could not say. All she was sure of was that Lady Anne had quite a gift for getting the reaction she wanted out of her audience, as she could have the reader laughing at her characters one moment and then crying for them the next.

Lady Anne was a deft hand at manipulating people's emotions…

…rather like someone else Ovelia could name.

She wasn't sure why the notion that the girl could be Delita's child, improbable though it was, managed to sting her numbed heart. And yet, for some reason, it did.

Perhaps, after Delita had used, lied to, and manipulated Ovelia so many times, this final insult was simply more than she could shut out?

Maybe she felt pity for the child who, sooner or later, would learn what her father was truly like just as she had learned what sort of man her "dashing prince" was.

Ovelia had already been that beautiful young girl in Lady Anne's story, or far more akin to her than she would like, and had ended up wearing her queenly raiment when she may as well have been wearing the ragged garb of a prisoner for all the difference it made. She did not relish the idea of a child sharing such a fate, even if dying from the Consumption would hardly be an improvement.

Granted, she had no proof that the girl was Delita's child, but what could living under her husband's roof entail but sharing his wife's fate?

As for the possibility that Delita might have a mistress, much less one young enough to be his daughter…Ovelia was trying very, VERY hard not to consider that possibility. Not necessarily because she believed even Delita would not cross such a line – he'd crossed too many to count, after all, and the argument between Shivers and the other gossips made it clear that such proclivities were not unheard-of – but because she simply couldn't imagine the final insult to her taking so vile a form.

Whether out of morbid curiosity or a desperate wish for her dire presentiments to be disproven, Ovelia found her way to the bedroom where the girl was reportedly staying. The significance of Delita choosing this room in particular was not lost on her. Aside from how it was the finest room in the castle besides the royal bedchambers, this room had been, in a very real way, Prince Orinias's cell.

Oh, granted, many were the prisoners in more traditional dungeon cells who would've happily traded places with him. But, Ovelia suspected they would've soon found that having a soft bed to sleep in, hot food to eat, little to no chance of perishing from the cold or disease, and no possibility of the torturer popping in for a visit, came at a price. Though Orinias was a prince, he, much like Ovelia, was merely a pawn. Just as the late Duke Goltana saw Ovelia as no more than a figurehead he could use to rule Ivalice in all but name, the late Duke Larg and Queen Ruvelia had much the same in mind for the boy prince.

Had Delita's secret machinations to steal the throne out from under warring dukes and queen alike failed and Duke Larg somehow managed to lead the Hokuten to victory, then Orinias likely would be in much the same place as Ovelia found herself now.

The people at his shoulder would whisper self-serving lies into his ear, expecting, and rightly so, that his inexperience and knowledge that his life only lasted as long as his usefulness to them, would ensure his compliance. Those around him would respect his rank, perhaps even revere him as a person, and yet their ignorance of his true situation would mean their bows and admiring smiles would offer him no comfort. Years would grind by as the stones in a mill ground against one another until both were no more than powder, his kingly robes a cell that he wore all hours and his crown more akin to chains and manacles, pinning him to his endless, weighty task of being another's puppet until his last breath.

But, that had not happened. With the warring dukes and the queen dead, and the Hokuten decimated, Orinias had no one left to back his claim to the throne. Most would have simply had him executed, to ensure yesterday's foe could not reappear tomorrow. But, Delita, even the deft manipulator of others, had chosen a more merciful solution which had impressed even his detractors: he had allowed Orinias to renounce the throne and go into exile, accompanied by a number of trusted servants and other exiled supporters of Larg who had agreed to serve as his caretakers.

Though being exiled by Delita meant that the former prince had been forever denied his birthright as heir to the throne of Ivalice, it also meant that there would be no one to whisper lies and threats into his ear to get what they wanted out of him, nor an ignorant populace to unwittingly dust his eyes with sand with every show of respect or envy.

It meant that, for the first time in his life, he was free.

She wondered if he was happy now.

She did not wonder if she ever might be, for that hope had fizzled out some time ago.

But, maybe it was not too late to spare another such a fate.

Recalling that the girl was, allegedly, recovering from a terrible disease that nearly killed her – and, in point of fact, had killed everyone else who'd contracted it – she opened the door very slowly and entered as quietly as she could.

What she beheld on the other side made her gasp aloud.

There was, indeed, a small girl in the bed. Incredibly, she had not been roused by Ovelia's exclamation, though that was not what had the queen gaping in shock.

The gossips claimed that Lord Nelson, the brightest star in Ivalician medicine, had snatched this girl off of Death's Doorstep, if not out of his foyer. And, she believed it!

The girl was as gaunt as a broomstick, her limbs wasted and nearly skeletal. Though she'd been bathed and her hair combed, her eyes looked slightly sunken and there were hints of sweat on her brow even though the room was pleasantly warm. Compresses had been placed over her neck and chest, and Ovelia suspected there were others where she could not see them. It also looked as though she were bundled up beneath her covers despite the room's warmth.

Having been jolted, profoundly, by the girl's pitiful state, the queen suddenly began wondering if she ought to leave rather than risk rousing the girl, who clearly needed as much time as possible to recuperate. But, her attention was arrested when she noticed something on the small girl's lap. A book.

And, not just any book.

Some time ago, as Delita opened up to her – or let her believe so, perhaps – he had shown her that very same tome. It was his old textbook from the Hokuten Academy in Gariland. It was open to a page about jousting, and she could even make out some notes that Delita had written in the margins, opining on various aspects which he had found flawed, or particularly challenging, or where he'd discovered ways the lessons could be utilized in times and places which his teachers seemed to have overlooked.

At the time, she had been impressed, both that he was so literate for a commoner and at how agile and inventive his mind was. Hindsight told her that he would've needed such keen wits to topple dukes into their graves and seduce princesses.

Still, she recalled how his time at the academy, and how he'd learned the depth of corruption in Ivalice's knighthoods and nobility during that time and after, had shaped him. And, both then and now, the significance of him choosing to share that, along with something of his that was so tied to such a personal and painful period in his life, was not lost on her.

But, why would he share it with this girl?

Once the initial shock of seeing the girl's condition had passed, the theory that she might be Delita's illegitimate daughter seemed an unlikely one. Granted, Ovelia had but scant knowledge of hereditary traits, but she could tell that this girl had very little in common with Delita. Her forehead was higher, her eyes further apart. He cheekbones, the shape of her ears and nose, and, most tellingly, the color and texture of her hair were all vastly different than those of the King of Ivalice.

The hair likely drove this point home most firmly, as young families would visit Orbonne from time to time. Some to seek treatment, baptisms, or spiritual guidance from the priests, or to trade goods, or to explore the possibility of one of their number joining the clergy. Ovelia had, discreetly, observed many such meetings and had noticed an interesting pattern: unless both parents were blonde, the child would not be. And, since Delita's locks were distinctly russet, then it seemed quite doubtful that he was the girl's father.

Of course, this still left open the question of just who she was, why Delita had gone to such trouble to bring her here, and why he seemed so personally invested in her.

Still, the girl was clearly in no fit state to be roused and interrogated, so Ovelia decided that she would try to visit again and hope to catch the girl when she was already awake and healthy enough to answer a few questions.

That was the plan, at least, but Ovelia soon had cause to redraw it: the door handle had begun to turn.

Fearful of just who might be on the other side of that door, Ovelia did not bother to muster what remained of her dignity and instead elected to hide.

This proved easier said than done, however. The suite in which the mysterious girl had been placed had three rooms, but not many nooks and crannies that offered concealment. And, though Ovelia and Alma had been infamously fond of hiding from the monks at Orbonne whenever they decided that panicking the kindly old men was a fair price for some entertainment, Ovelia was out of practice.

Not having many options, she ducked into one of the adjoining rooms which, at some point, had been used to store clothes and accessories for the room's occupant, as well as a bath and privy. As the room seemed practically empty, Ovelia decided she could hide there for a short time…assuming, of course, whoever was at the door did not decide that the girl needed to wash up or relieve herself.

Deciding not to draw the curtains, just in case whoever came in might notice they'd been open earlier, she hugged the corner of wall nearest the doorway and listened. Long moments later, the door creaked open and heavy footsteps crossed the threshold.

Ovelia had a pretty good idea who it might be, and she did not want him to know she was here.

Eventually, despite her worry, she peeked around the corner and, sure enough, there was Delita. He had grabbed a chair from the far side of the room and had moved it over to the girl's bedside. Apparently having been roused this time, the girl let out a soft yawn. Stretching, she blinked sleepily and, upon seeing Delita, she seemed to brighten.

This, not coincidentally, caused Ovelia's expression to darken.

The girl's expression was very different that the smiles of gushing, if sometimes unspoken admiration often sent in Delita's direction. This smile seemed far more personal, almost as if she cared for Delita in a way that had nothing to do with his rank, title, or image, and that she was relieved, as well as happy, to see him.

Ovelia suddenly found herself wondering about Shivers and his talk about mistresses who were "young and tender".

"Good afternoon, Layla," Delita said, a curious smile touching his features. "You're looking a bit better than you did yesterday."

"Thank you, sire," Layla replied, the formal mode of address, slightly, blunting the unsavory direction of Ovelia's thoughts. "Sister Agnes has been working very hard to make sure I get better."

"I'm very glad to hear that. I'd heard that she had experience helping nurse people back to health when they'd been nearly starved, but even I was worried that…"

Here, Delita's words trailed away and, much to Ovelia's surprise, hints of genuine anguish crossed his features at the notion that the girl might've died before he could find her. The queen's brow furrowed in deep perplexity, as she had rarely seen him show signs of grief and, as yet, he had never done so without subsequently giving her cause to doubt his sincerity.

Apparently sensing the turn of his mood, the girl, Layla, in a herculean effort, reached out one nearly skeletal hand to clasp his. Ovelia could swear she saw veins pop on the little girl's neck as she managed, barely, to give a reassuring squeeze.

This seemed to have the desired effect, as Delita's expression eased. His answering smile seemed a bit wan, almost as if he were mulling over the memory of something he had cherished and then lost, though his eyes yet remained at odds with his lips.

The furrows on Ovelia's brow deepened. Though Delita had, indeed, not seemed himself in recent days, this was vastly out of character for the King of Ivalice. Regardless of how he had felt, or who might be watching, he had endeavored to always project an air of confidence, charm, and nigh-invincibility, only allowing his more human side to show at tactically chosen moments where deftly chosen words and masterful use of inflections could help to endear him to his listeners by painting himself as one who shared their pains, their frustrations, and their wishes for a brighter future.

After all, hadn't that been what had beguiled her into his arms only for the manacles to clamp tight?

Now, by contrast, he looked weary, melancholy, and very alone.

He did not look the part of a king, but merely a man who was looking upon the road he'd traveled and wondering if this fork or that which he'd passed might've proven the wiser choice.

Still, Layla's intervention had, if not broken the trance, then at least cracked it. Noting the book in her lap, Delita moved to look over the girl's shoulder and the pair began discussing what sounded like cavalry maneuvers. At times, Delita would pantomime the proper grips to be used when holding a chocobo's reins and various weapons and, with surprising gentility, guiding Layla through reproducing that same grip. He would even make some joking remarks about which professors to avoid once she was at the academy.

So, since this girl was clearly not his child, and likely not his mistress either, did that make this girl a protégé instead?

Ovelia wasn't sure that idea sat any more comfortably with her than did its contemporaries. Though Delita was a gifted warrior and leader, he had another, far darker skillset with which Ovelia had long, sad acquaintance. Still, Ovelia was shaken back to the present when Layla mentioned something that caught the queen's attention.

"Are you going to tell me how you met my brother?" she asked. "You promised you would, if I did what Sister Agnes said, and I did."

Ovelia noted Delita's jaw tighten at the notion of honoring this particular promise and, after a few uncharitable thoughts about how Delita fared in keeping his word, she then had a far more pertinent question.

Who was Layla's brother, and why would Delita feel so disquieted at the prospect of talking about him?

"That is a long story," he began, and Ovelia almost laughed at how Layla's cheeks puffed up at the seeming violation of their agreement. "But, I'll tell you some of it now and return with more another time."

Apparently mollified, Layla smiled and settled in, looking for all the world like a daughter waiting to hear a favorite bedtime story from her father.

Ovelia tried not to feel disquieted by that image.

"Drake and I met Algus not long after we graduated from the then-Hokuten academy in Gariland," Delita began. "Ordinarily, commoners like he and I would never have been permitted to attend, but we got lucky…well, we had cause to think otherwise later, but we were fortunate in our own way."

"How so?" Layla asked.

"The noble who oversaw our village, who was a righteous man and a great warrior, chose to sponsor us. He was childless, but our families counted him more as a friend than a master, and I think he considered us the sons he never had. He also knew that a knighthood would offer us a chance at a brighter future, so he strong-armed the academy's dean into accepting us. He passed on not long before we began our term, but he was still laughing about the look on the dean's face in his final moments while telling us to dazzle those "brats" we'd be training with."

Again, that curious melancholy settled onto Delita's face. Layla seemed to sense it as well, for she tried once more to break the trance.

"He sounds like a good man," she said.

"That he was," Delita replied, with uncharacteristically genuine sincerity. "Unlike most, he judged people by their spirit rather than their pedigrees, what they could do rather than what they'd been born as. He was stern, but fair. And, above all, he was loyal to those he considered his friends. You would've enjoyed meeting him."

"I wish I could've. So, Algus wasn't with you at the academy?"

"No. He'd already graduated a while before we did. I was traveling home, along with Drake and several of our friends from the academy, the same ones who were with Chancellor Olan and Lady Balmafula when they found you. Then, up ahead, we heard the sounds of battle. We raced ahead and saw Algus. He was beset by several soldiers from the Corpse Brigade. We fought them off."

"Did Algus fight bravely?"

Here, Delita paused for a moment, almost as if he needed to consider his words before he spoke them. After a long moment, he continued.

"Bravely, yes," he admitted, almost sounding reluctant. "Wisely, no. Something essential when knights fight alongside one another is teamwork. Algus did not know us, nor how we fought. And, even if he did, it quickly became apparent that he was not used to fighting as part of a unit. Oh, his strength and swordsmanship were certainly impressive, and since he'd stood his ground and kept fighting well after those who'd traveled with him were dead, none could dispute his courage. But, how much is that worth when he kept breaking formation or darting in front of one of his allies to score the critical blow?"

That, apparently, left Layla conflicted. Obviously, she wanted to believe her, presumably, older brother was brave and skillful. But, much as he'd been when beguiling Ovelia into trusting him and then loving him, only so he could manipulate her as everyone else wished, Delita knew how to be convincing when arguing a point one was loathe to believe.

"What happened next?" Layla asked, her tone subdued.

"After the battle was over," Delita continued, "Algus told us that the Marquis Elmdor had been abducted by the Corpse Brigade. We had heard tell, at the academy, that that Hokuten were mobilizing to counterattack the Brigade, and we'd been assigned to Igros Castle to support the flank. Algus wanted to track down the Brigade and rescue the Marquis, but we refused him." Here, Delita raised an admonishing hand to forestall what might've been an aghast outburst from Layla. "Now, you must understand something: even if we agreed to his plan, how would we have rescued the Marquis? We had no idea where they were holding him. And, even if we did, the Brigadiers were veterans of the Fifty Years War, many of whom had been sent on suicidal missions and survived. We were fresh out of the academy and had a grand total of two real battles, which were more like skirmishes, under our belts. The wiser course was to get reinforcements and to figure out where to look in order to scent the trail."

Here, he paused and fixed Layla with a serious gaze that would not have been out of place on the faces of one of Delita's former professors.

"Charging into battle, swords upraised, is well and good when you have what you need to win," he began. "A plan of action, equipment, intelligence on the enemy, and men and women you know will have your back when the fighting starts. Going into battle without any of that is a fast way to cut short your career. And, your life."

"So, why did Algus want to go after the Marquis, then?" Layla asked.

"My guess? You are aware of your family's…reputation. So, I would imagine that no one wanted him around when he was in training. Cadets would not work with him, unless they were compelled, and professors likely would've been very happy to see him wash out or be expelled. And, that had likely been the case for him even before he'd begun his training. A few years of being unwanted, and it might cause you to decide no one will ever want you. So, the idea of relying on others and asking for help likely never even occurred to him. That, and he longed for the honor and glory that would've come with so heroic a deed as rescuing the Marquis. Still, we were able to convince him, and he agreed to come with us to Igros to raise the alarm and see what could be done."

"But, you did save the Maquis, right?""

"Yes, though that came as a bit of a surprise. The late Dycedarg Beoulve was the lord of Igros, and we went directly to him to report what had happened. He said he would do all in his power to rescue the Maquis. Algus begged for a chance to participate, but he was firmly rebuked. Dycedarg claimed it was a matter of jurisdiction, and that Algus was too inexperienced for such a mission, but I suspect the real reason for his refusal was…"

The remainder of the sentence was left unspoken, but it seemed that Layla knew well enough what it must've been, for her gaze dipped and she clenched her sheets in a frustrated grip.

"Still," Delita began again, "we decided to make the most of our stay. Drake and I arranged for our sisters to meet us at Igros. Teta, my sister, was very proud of me for graduating from the academy. And Catherine, Drake's sister, was also pleased to see him return safely. When Algus, Drake, and I had a moment to ourselves, Algus confided in us the story of his family's downfall. I think, at that moment, I understood him better. Maybe not perfectly, because as a commoner I had little in the way of a family legacy to uphold. But, I was a commoner at a prestigious academy surrounded by students and faculty who were all nobles. I found no welcome there, much like Algus likely hadn't where he'd trained, so I understood what it was like to be judged unfairly for something you could not change, and which had little to do with what made you yourself."

Aside from the embellishments he'd likely added to preserve Ramza and Alma's cover stories, Ovelia knew much of this to be true. It had cast his hatred towards the nobles who'd dressed him up as one of their own, only to reject their live doll later, in an understandable light. After all, she had heard it just after she'd learned she'd been a "doll" all her life, and began wondering just what purpose that life had served with the illusion shorn away.

"What happened next?" Layla asked, shaking her back to attention.

"Well, one of the veteran knights stationed at Igros, Sir Gareth Grimbold, who was aware of the situation, said he could help us," Delita went on. "Apparently, he had planted a spy amongst the Brigade, but he had gone too long without sending word. So, he advised us to go to Dorter and see what we could learn about him. After all, simply finding a missing man and learning what he knows is a much more attainable goal for an inexperienced band of eager, young squires. We – that is, Algus and I – sensed that there might be a chance therein to contribute to rescuing the Marquis, so we jumped at the idea."

Sensing that the story was surely about to get much more exciting, Layla leaned in and was about to ask what happened next, likely with much greater enthusiasm, but her words soon turned into raking coughs. Delita, his expression showing a surprising amount of alarm, vaulted to his feet and fetched a cup of liquid from the bedside table. With ill-concealed worry, which brought ill-concealed astonishment to Ovelia's face, he began ladling the liquid down her throat, periodically setting it aside to press his ear to her chest, likely to gauge her breathing. Once Layla's coughing had subsided and her breathing was apparently strong and regular, Delita sagged into his chair in boneless relief.

"I think that's enough of the story for now," he decided. "I should find Sister Agnes and have her make sure you didn't get too excited back there."

Layla opened her mouth, looking keen to object, but then she closed it again and nodded sadly.

"Don't worry," Delita said. "The rest of the story will keep until later. For now, get some rest and keep studying. When you can. I look forward to seeing what Dame Layla the Unbroken can do to top vanquishing the Consumption."

"It was Lord Nelson who did that," Layla contradicted, but not without an embarrassed smile.

"Perhaps, but it takes a brave patient to keep fighting until the doctor can do his job. For now, rest. I'll be back another time."

Layla nodded and gave a, surprisingly good, reproduction of the warrior's salute, straightening her back and clapping a fist to her heart. Delita reciprocated with a smile, a smile still tinged with a peculiar sadness but not as much so as beforehand, and then headed to the door. Curiously, before opening it, he paused for a long moment. He simply stood there, eerily still. Ovelia's eyes narrowed and she squinted at Delita to see what she might discern, but her vantage point now offered her little more than his backside.

Layla too noted this oddity, for a quizzical expression crossed her face and her head titled at a perplexed angle which, under more benign circumstances, would've looked positively adorable. Then, just as abruptly as the strange moment began, it ended, Delita opening the door and passing through without so much as a backward glance.

Ovelia sagged with relief, just barely managing to swallow the breath she'd been holding rather than let it woosh out noisily. Her relief did become tinged with amazement, and more than a little bitterness, as she realized that Delita had, indeed, been quite oblivious to her presence. Did whatever had crowded into his thoughts overwhelm his ordinarily impeccable situational awareness? Or, did he simply not care where his scepter was so long as he could snatch it up whenever he needed it?

She shook off the notion. Whatever the reason she had gone undetected, she was not about to let this small bit of luck go to waste. Granted, she had come away from this unexpected adventure with even more questions that she'd had beforehand, but she now knew where to begin her search for answers.

Chancellor Olan had been the one to find Layla and bring her to the castle.

Lady Balmafula, Sir Raffe, Sir Frances, Sir Abel, Dame Wynefreede, Dame Mydrede, and Dame Emery had been with Olan when he'd found the girl.

Sir Raffe, Sir Frances, Sir Abel, Dame Wynefreede, Dame Mydrede, and Dame Emery had met the girl's brother, Algus, shortly after graduating from the academy, as had Duke Drake Seymour, also known as Ramza Beoulve.

Drake had brought Algus to Igros Castle where, by the sound of things, Algus had met both Delita's late sister, Teta, and Duchess Catherine Seymour, also known as Alma Beoulve.

Did that mean Alma might know who this Algus was, what connection he'd had to Delita, and his reasons for, apparently, taking in his little sister?

It certainly seemed possible, and Ovelia was now keen to find out.

Oblivious to her uninvited guest, Layla settled back against her pillows, leafing through Delita's old textbook for long minutes before she finally fell back asleep. Seeing this, Ovelia quietly made her way to the door. Suddenly feeling very much like a thief rather than that she was reliving the more rambunctious days of her youth, she slowly opened the door, peeked around to make sure no one would see her emerge, and then exited the room. Hearing nothing to indicate that her intrusion had been detected, she let out a sigh of relief, audible this time, and then returned to her room to make ready for her lunch with Alma.

She wanted answers, and hopefully her old friend could supply them.

SSSSSS

Alma could not help but find her gaze wandering to the small pocket watch that Ramza had gifted her with before the pair had left Lionel for Lesalia. While Agrias, Rad, the Murry twins, Beowulf, and Reis had been drawing up plans for their visit to the crown jewel of Ivalice, whether practical or frivolous, and Reis had been making sure Alma's pregnancy remained healthy, Ramza had gifted her this peculiar accessory. Although he'd refused to tell her the reason for giving her an item typically worn by men, Alma suspected that her brother intended for the watch to be a subtle reminder that time was of the essence when it came to choosing a husband.

It was Alma's opinion that, in addition to being a bit droll, the gesture was downright redundant.

She hardly needed such a reminder since the tiny being growing within her body was causing her dresses to grow tighter by the day. She'd had to go to Annie the seamstress and ask her to make new dresses to hide her growing belly, all the while thanking every saint that she'd ever even heard of that the kindly woman knew of her situation and kept it a secret. On top of that, she'd noticed that her appetite had also grown considerably, which rather complicated her efforts to discourage Charlotte's persistent snacking in the hopes of constraining the little's girl's ballooning waistline. Add in the feelings of nausea that cropped up at the most damnable moments and her frantic trips to the privy, and she had more than enough reminders of both her pregnancy and the sands of time flowing away without a ticking contraption to rub it in further. But, having been taught that it was unbecoming of a lady to refuse a gift, especially if it came from family, Alma graciously accepted the golden pocket watch that she was sure Ramza must have acquired from an enemy time mage who served under one of his wealthier enemies.

Granted, this didn't stop Alma from thinking her brother was pushy and an idiot, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that he cared.

There were brothers out there, and fathers too, who would have felt differently.

She noted how, contrary to Ramza's unspoken expectations, the seconds and minutes ticked away on the pocket watch with maddening slowness, prompting Alma to clap it shut while mightily suppressing the urge to drum her fingers. Were she about to have lunch with anyone else, Alma would have asked one of the maids what was taking her would-be hostess so long. But since that person was the queen herself, Alma decided it best not to ask and simply wait patiently, since such an inquiry would be considered rude. Especially since the queen also had royal duties to attend to that could also contribute to her possible tardiness.

After a few more moments, the royal lady in question made her presence known by softly clearing her throat, startling Alma. Ironically, she had been so lost in her thoughts as well as preoccupied by the beauty of the pocket watch's golden casing, she had failed to notice that Ovelia herself was standing behind her waiting chair.

Embarrassed, Alma quickly, if somewhat absently, set her watch on the small table and was about to apologize when her friend quickly cut her off.

"It's all right, Lady Catherine. You owe me no apology, for it is I who am tardy. May I join you?"

Relieved that Ovelia was not offended, Alma released a quiet breath of relief and said "Yes, of course."

Trying her best to smile without betraying the troubled thoughts that prodded at the back of her mind, Ovelia finally sat down and called for the maidservant to take their order. Having spent the early half of their youth together at Orbonne, the two young women had developed similar tastes. Not that they had much choice since monastery food consisted of mostly of such simple dishes as bread and rice porridge, along with steamed vegetables, milk, and water. Only on religious holidays were the monastery's inhabitants permitted the luxury of meat and wine, as well as candies such as chocolate.

But nowadays, the young queen found little enjoyment in the culinary delights that were now available to her every day at Lesalia Castle; an irony considering that Ovelia normally relished each and every chance she got just to have a piece of cooked meat or candy and desserts during her monastery days as a ward of the late Father Simon.

Sensing that all was not well with her old friend, Alma was about to make an inquiry of concern, but then thought it better to wait until the maidservant left after taking their orders. When she was sure that the teenage maidservant was finally out of earshot, Alma leaned forward and finally asked the question that was on her mind, taking care to keep her voice low so as not to be heard by anyone who may still be nearby.

"Ovelia, is something wrong? You seemed a bit on edge today. Has something happened?"

In response to her friend's inquiry, Ovelia sighed. Part of her was relieved that Alma had so easily discerned her unease, sparing her the trouble of bringing it up herself. However, another part of her was also unsure as to how to voice her concerns about her own husband to her best friend. Especially since Delita had practically been a brother to Alma as well.

"I…," Ovelia began as she struggled for the right words to explain the scene she had recently witnessed between Delita and the young girl she had assumed to be his daughter but turned out to be a child of the fallen and disgraced Saldalfas family.

"Yes, what is it?" Alma pressed. "Ovelia, you know you can tell me anything. It's Delita, isn't it?"

The young queen felt herself growing nervous even though she knew she had no reason to be. After all, this was Alma Beoulve, the same kind noble girl who'd befriended her at Orbonne Monastery and became her best friend as well as her steadfast companion until the day she was finally summoned back to the Beoulve family on the order of her eldest brother for an arranged, and unwanted, marriage.

A potentially unhappy marriage that Alma had been fortunate enough to escape, even though it had reportedly involved at least two kidnappings and faking her own death. Ovelia, on the other hand, was slightly bitter that fate had not been as generous with her. Oh, her husband was young and handsome all right, but Ovelia had long since begun to doubt she would have been better off if, as Vormav had so eloquently put it, she'd had a noose instead of a crown. What made it worse was that Ovelia had given her hand as well as her maidenhood to Delita of her own free will before realizing just exactly what he was capable of, and what he may yet be capable of.

While Ovelia had been mustering her nerve, Alma had regarded her with a patient, encouraging expression. Demure though the Queen of Ivalice might be, she was not typically one to waver when something of import needed to be said. If she was struggling with her words, then they must be weighty words indeed. Still, Alma had been in Ovelia's place not long ago, and the Duchess of Lionel knew all too well that patience was the best course. So, she settled into her chair, purposefully relaxing her posture in the hope that it might calm Ovelia enough for her to speak, and took a sip of the fruit juice the maidservant had delivered.

"Catherine…Alma…" Ovelia began, slowly and quietly, while briefly darting a glance around themm to make sure they were truly alone before continuing. "Forgive me for bringing this up, but does the name 'Algus Sadalfas' ring a bell for you?"

Unknowingly echoing another group's reaction to much the same question, Alma choked on her drink. Spitting it back into her glass, coughing and gasping all the while, she turned stunned, disbelieving eyes upon her hostess. For a long moment, she wondered if her ears might have played her false when she thought she'd heard her friend bring up the name of the long deceased young man whose one callous act set in motion the chain of events that shaped Ramza and Delita, as well as herself, into who they were today.

A name she had tried very, very hard to forget.

"Ovelia…," Alma began in a low voice once her coughing fit had subsided, "how did you know about Algus? Did Delita ever mention him to you?"

"I…," Ovelia wavered, startled by Alma's reaction and searching her mind for an answer to her friend's inquiry. Even though Delita was her husband, both she and Alma knew that his past was not a topic he felt comfortable discussing with anyone, including Ramza and Alma who were painfully aware of the tale.

"Well?"

Ovelia was snapped out of her stupor when she finally noticed her best friend's curious gaze and immediately regretted bringing up the late disgraced nobleman. But now that Algus's name had already passed her lips, the young queen knew her friend would give her no peace until she finally revealed what had been on her mind since she witnessed the strange scene between her husband and the younger sister of his sworn enemy.

"No… Delita never mentioned him. As you've probably guessed, I know very little of my husband's past. Whenever I pressed him for more details during our…courtship, he would always say that he wished to forget about it and that I was better off not knowing. Back then, I was disappointed with Delita's answer, not only due to my curiosity but because I wondered if it meant he didn't trust me. Now, however, I realize that he was right."

Alma's expression fell at her friend's words. She knew all too well that Delita's claims about wanting to forget his past was a lie, and one of many at that. Not that it needed to be said since it was obvious that Ovelia eventually came to that realization herself. But how could Ovelia have known about Algus Saldalfus if her husband never told her about him? Alma was certain she herself never breathed a word about the fallen noble to her best friend during their fosterage at Orbonne Monastery all those years ago.

"So, if Delita did not tell you about Algus, how did you come to know of him?" she pressed.

"It was an accident…," the queen confessed. "I know I should've had faith and trust in my husband, and I did for a time, but the secrets I knew he was keeping gnawed at me relentlessly and I couldn't help myself, so…"

Although her words trailed away, their remaining number left unspoken, it wasn't hard for Alma to guess what Ovelia eventually ended up doing.

"You started spying on him…," Alma finished, albeit in the quietest voice she could muster as if the very walls had ears. Which, in Lesalia, they probably did.

"Can you blame me?" Ovelia hissed back, trying to contain her agitation and keep her own voice down. Even though it seemed there was no one around to hear them, both knew Lesalian gossips were quite intrepid in plying their trade.

As much as she hated to admit it, Alma honestly couldn't fault Ovelia for doubting Delita. And so, she responded in the only way she could think of.

"What did you find?"

Ovelia paused for a moment as she tried to think of how to explain her discovery in a way that would not confuse or overwhelm her friend.

"It all started a few weeks ago…" the queen began. "I accidentally overheard Chancellor Olan and Lady Balmafula discussing some kind of mysterious 'package' that Delita ordered them to find. Even if they had to tear up the slums and ruins of Limberry to find it. And from the way they spoke, I assumed that what it was they were supposed to be seeking was a matter of gravest secrecy."

Alma was confused. "A package?" she asked, briefly perplexed, before remembering that Limberry was where the Sadalfas family originated. From what she had heard, the entire family had vanished during the War of the Lions, no doubt having either perished or gone into hiding due to their last hope of having their reputation restored having been crushed with Algus's untimely death.

Ovelia nodded. "Yes. At first, I thought it was a literal package, containing something Delita wanted discreetly found. But, when I really thought about it, what could be in the ghettos of Limberry, or the shanty towns outside Lesalia where the "package" was ultimately tracked to, that could possibly interest a king enough to send some of his best warriors to turn the place upside down in order to find it?"

At first, Alma was confused. But, after seeing the look on Ovelia's face, understanding finally dawned on her. Delita wasn't looking for a something, but rather a someone.

"But who?" Alma asked in confusion. While it was most likely that Delita still held a grudge against Algus himself for Teta's death, there were far more important things that required his attention as king than hunting down members of a family that might not even exist anymore, even for revenge. Not to mention wasting precious time, money, and resources to do so.

"I wasn't sure at first," Ovelia confessed. "But after later overhearing a group of nobles gossiping about a young girl that Olan had found in the shanty towns outside the capital, my mind would leave me no peace until I found out for certain. So, I made a habit out of pretending to be asleep when my husband left our chambers at night before trailing him in secret. I would go disguised as a maidservant so that, in case he ever noticed me, I could claim to be doing my nightly rounds."

"Did he ever notice you following him?" Alma asked, intrigued by her friend's boldness. Ovelia's desire to know her husband's secrets obviously overpowered any fear she might have if he discovered her spying on him if she was willing to go to such lengths.

Ovelia shook her head. "Fortunately, no. I make no claims to be a skilled footpad. I just happened to be lucky that Delita had been so distracted by his thoughts lately that I could have walked right behind him while breathing down his neck and he still wouldn't have noticed me."

Were the situation not so serious, Alma would have laughed. Indeed, she had been tempted to do so at the thought of Ovelia spying on her husband without even needing to be discreet. Still, her humor was tinged with concern and perplexity. They both knew that, ordinarily, the young king was keenly aware of situations and people around him. He had to be in order to beguile, outmaneuver, and eventually crush every noble and clergyman trying to seize absolute power in Ivalice during the war while ensuring that he himself did not end up being stabbed in the back. The fact that Delita was now king meant that he had to be even more alert if he wanted to keep his crown. Even if he appeared to be loved and trusted by the people, there were surely some amongst those whom Delita had stabbed in the back who had surviving kin as well as allies who could still prove to be a threat to his rule.

After taking a moment to think about it, understanding finally dawned on Alma and she spoke the thoughts that she knew were on her friend's mind.

"You think he could be seeking out a surviving member of the Sadalfas family," she concluded.

Ovelia sighed. "You know me too well, Alma…," she said quietly. "But I actually didn't find that out until later. What prompted me to start spying on Delita in the first place was when I learned from the nobles I was, I'm sorry to say it, eavesdropping on, mention that Olan had found a young girl in the shanty towns and brought her to the castle."

Alma was puzzled. "A young girl?", she asked, not sure if she liked the direction this conversation was taking.

Now it was Ovelia's turn to read her friend's mind. "Yes, it's as you assume. I didn't want to entertain the thought either. But, deep down, I feared that Delita had an illegitimate child, same as Ramza. Or, even worse, a mistress. A very young mistress."

A lifetime of education in how a nobly born young lady ought to conduct herself kept Alma from gaping like a beached flounder as she listened to Ovelia's suspicions. Barely. The thought of Delita having an illegitimate child was one Alma could stomach, since she knew Ramza had fathered one himself. But a young mistress? Considering that Delita was only twenty-three years old or so meant that a "very" young mistress to him had to be a literal child.

And while Ramza and Alma had spent a good half decade apart from their childhood friend and knew that, like themselves, Delita had changed a great deal, Alma still had difficulty believing that the new King of Ivalice was actually a pedophile.

Recalling what she had pieced together about the workhouse that Manon, Charlotte, and their wardmates had fled, the notion turned her already delicate stomach all the more. From what she had heard, once it had become apparent that the children had been abandoned by church and state alike, they had been driven to survive any way they could. Aside from thievery, some of the older children had resorted to strong arming their younger fellows into providing services to clients with such…proclivities.

Charlotte, just barely past her tenth birthday, had been slated to be "rented out" for a man old enough to be her father, if not her grandfather, before Manon's conscience had stirred him to help her escape.

Between the older children who should have stepped into the role vacated by the adults who had stopped caring the minute they'd stopped getting paid, those aforementioned adults, those "clients" whose perversities likely ruined many a childhood, and the many who likely knew or at least suspected what was going on but took no action, Alma wasn't sure who disgusted her more.

She wanted, desperately, to believe that Delita's cold and calculating nature did not include such a heinous vice as exploiting the young. But then again, she also once believed that Delita wasn't capable of doing all he had done to secure the crown of Ivalice either.

Still, the Duchess of Lionel wanted to give her best friend's husband at least this one benefit of a doubt. After all, Delita had safeguarded Ovelia during the war and, now that she was his queen, treated her well. Even if their marriage was a bit turbulent with an uncertain future to say the least.

And since Delita, along with Ramza, had also taken great pains to arrange for a ball to help Alma find a husband before it was discovered she was pregnant out of wedlock as well, she felt obligated to defend her childhood friend against the perverse suspicions of his wife.

"Now, now, Ovelia, please don't be hasty. Despite all he's done to secure the throne, Delita has still done right by us as well as the people. I'm sure there are lines even he wouldn't cross."

Ovelia sighed as she raised a hand to her temple. "It's all right, Alma. I did say that was what I assumed at first, but was later relieved to find out that I was wrong and on both counts. The girl was neither Delita's child nor mistress, thank God."

Alma heaved a sigh of relief for a moment before her curiosity resurfaced. "So, if this girl was neither Delita's child nor… mistress, then who is she?"

Now that their conversation was heading back in a less uncomfortable direction, Ovelia was finally able to relax a bit and take a bite out of the roasted pheasant dish which she'd been served when the maidservant returned with hers and Alma's orders, before it got cold. Having reached the point of her pregnancy where she hardly needed encouragement, Alma tucked into her portion as well. After waiting patiently for the maidservant to leave again and be out of earshot, Ovelia continued.

"Would you believe me if I said that this child is none other than the younger sister of Delita's most hated enemy? The one who caused the death of his little sister and started this whole mess in the first place?"

Alma frowned. While Teta's death was a pivotal turning point in Ramza and Delita's lives, as well as her own, it would've been naive to believe that the War of the Lions would have been averted whether or not she lived or died, as cold as it may sound. Alma felt that, even if they had managed to save Teta, Dycedarg would have found some other way to get rid of the Hyral siblings sooner or later, if not exploit them for his own ends. He had never been nearly as fond of Delita and Teta as Balbanes had been. Hell, Dycedarg was never even fond of Ramza and Alma, his own blood siblings, either, for that matter.

More to the point, the wheels that guided Ivalice towards the War of the Lions had begun turning long beforehand. Orinias's birth, and dubious parentage, Ruvelia and Larg's and Dycedarg's plot to assassinate Ovelia and pin the blame on Goltana, the church's machinations to supplant the monarchy. Not to mention the Lucavi's infiltration into the mortal realm. Each and all had begun before Ramza and Delita had ever crossed paths with Algus, and likely would have continued apace even if Teta's death had been averted.

The notion that saving the life of one good person counting for so little in the grand scheme was a melancholy and demoralizing thought.

"I wasn't aware that Algus had any living relatives," Alma began, eager to guide her thoughts on a different course. "Like the Beoulves, House Sadalfas is believed to be no more."

As she said this, Alma realized the irony of her own words. However, her survival was largely attributed to the protection of Izlude and Ramza, not to mention the late Sir Justin Timbel as well. Algus, on the other hand, had been killed at the ill-fated battle at Fort Zeakden. So, if he had any young siblings, they would not have been able to escape the wrath of the Sadalfas family's many enemies and creditors. Not unless they went into hiding with a guardian and protector.

"That's what I heard too," Ovelia admitted. "But, as both of us have learned, nothing is what it seems."

So intrigued, as well as concerned, was Alma at the prospect of Delita finding the younger sister of his hated enemy, that she decided it was best to put off telling Ovelia about Izlude. At least for now.

It was probably for the best, anyway. Ovelia clearly had enough on her mind as it was and, any way that one looked at it, that tale was quite overwhelming.

"Indeed," Alma agreed. "I'm amazed he even knew she existed, let alone where to find her. Algus was quite open with Ramza about his family and origins. But he only ever spoke of his father and grandfather. He never mentioned any siblings. If he did, I'm sure Ramza would have told me."

"And, knowing Ramza, he would have told Delita as well. I can't explain how Delita knew of this girl's existence, but he did. And he ordered Olan, Balmafula, and his former classmates from the Hokuten Academy to find her. And from what I saw, they'd succeeded."

"What's she like? Have you seen her?"

"Yes… I knew it was risky, but I just had to know for certain who this child was."

"So, what did you do?"

Here, Ovelia hesitated, her gaze drifting to her plate as if she wasn't sure if Alma would believe her.

"Ovelia?"

The young queen snapped out of her reverie at her friend's concerned voice.

"I'm sorry!" she apologized hastily. "I don't think there's any way to say this without sounding foolish, so I hope you won't judge me too harshly."

Alma sighed and shook her head before reaching across the table and gently taking her friend's hand.

"Ovelia, it's me, Alma! Your best friend since we met as outcasts from our families at Orbonne Monastery. You know you can tell me anything and I won't judge you. Just because you're a queen now doesn't change that."

Relieved at her friend's promise and the warmth of understanding and simple humanity behind it, the young queen finally spilled the beans.

"All right. As I said earlier, I made a habit out of following Delita in secret after I learned his patterns of leaving our chambers at night when he thought I was asleep."

"Go on…"

"Last night, I knew Delita would not be returning to our chamber until late. So, I took the opportunity to slip into the room where this mysterious girl was being kept. Those gossips I chanced upon mentioned that Delita was apparently keeping her in the room of former Prince Orinas, God guide him to a better life than his mother had planned. It was not being used, and wouldn't be until Delita and I finally produce an heir."

At the mention of an heir, Alma raised a brow. As the new King and Queen of Ivalice, she knew they would eventually be expected to produce an heir to continue the Hyral Dynasty. But, with things as they are, she feared that the newly crowned royal couple may not even get to that point. However, she refrained from voicing her thoughts since Ovelia had enough troubling her as it is.

"You snuck into the girl's room? Did she notice you?"

Ovelia shook her head. "Fortunately, no, she was asleep. I know that sneaking around the castle in the dead of the night like a common thief is behavior unbecoming of a queen, but I just had to see this child for myself, as well as know who she was and what exactly is she to my husband."

Alma whistled. It looked like she wasn't the only one who had changed during the course of the War of the Lions. Ovelia had also become bolder and more assertive when she desired something, especially if that something was knowledge.

"And that was when you found out she was of Sadalfas blood?"

"Not exactly. I just wanted to confirm that she wasn't Deltia's child and luckily, her features dissuaded me of that notion; the girl looked nothing like him. Unfortunately, that still didn't tell me if she were, God forbid, his mistress or not."

Alma was confused. "So, how did you confirm that she wasn't?" she asked curiously.

Ovelia sighed. "I intended to confront Delita himself about that later but, as luck would have it, he came into the room before I could leave. I was lucky I heard him coming and hid myself in the adjoining room. Call it luck or whatnot, but I managed to remain unnoticed by both the girl and Delita. What I learned from their conversation was…startling. Delita hadn't seemed like himself for some time now, granted, but he seemed very different here. Like a whole different person."

"Oh?"

Knowing that what she witnessed would be a long story that could take up the rest of the afternoon – and in a city where privacy was a capricious thing at best, no less – Ovelia decided to give her friend an abbreviated version of what she heard and witnessed between the mysterious child and Delita.

"Her name is Layla. And she's possibly the last living member of the Sadalfas family, at least that I know of. Like you said, her brother and Delita had some history together, and most of it wasn't good. I was utterly astounded at how my husband could speak of his late enemy the way he did. He spoke of Algus candidly, describing his more admirable qualities. Even if it was to spare his innocent young sister the horrors of what her brother had done, that seemed quite at odds with what I had expected. But Delita had managed it, and what amazed me the most was that he himself sounded like he believed his own words. I was also astounded at how he pointed out Algus's faults in a way that didn't sound like he was spitefully besmirching the dead since he could not defend himself, but rather as a gentle warning to his sister not to repeat his mistakes."

Alma felt her jaw drop. "That's unbelievable! After what Algus did to Teta, I half expected Delita to smother Layla in her sleep or something."

"I thought so too. But after what I witnessed…I'm not sure what to think. Part of me still thinks Delita has some scheme in mind, some machination to help further his power. But, I can't quite make myself believe it. Everything else he's done, to Orlandu, to Goltana, to me, all of it fit together." Here, she paused and leveled a credible imitation of a mischievous grin at Alma. "Rather like the gears of the pocket watch you shouldn't have been staring at or have left in plain view."

Blushing deeply, and trying not to pout at being made a figure of fun by her old friend, Alma hastily snatched up the pocket watch and tucked it out of sight. Still, despite being caught in the midst of a faux pas without even realizing it, she did find a sense of relief that her friend's melancholy seemed to be cracking in order to this bit of impishness to have shown itself.

"So, why can't you believe it?" she asked, guarded hope smoldering in her breast.

"It's…difficult to put into words," Ovelia admitted. "Aside from how frank and candid he was with Layla, more so than he's been with me in some time, there was something in his expression and voice that caught my attention. He seemed so…melancholic, I suppose. Almost like he was sifting through his regrets. And, believe me, that was last thing he would have shown me, or anyone else for that matter, during the war."

The weight of those words was not lost on the Duchess of Lionel. Delita had taken great pains to appear indefatigable, decisive, and unwavering in his commitment to guide Ivalice to a better future, only humanizing himself at tactically chosen moments. Though she didn't doubt he carried a great deal of pain beneath that veneer, his revealing even a hint of it to a girl he'd only just met – and who was kin to his most hated enemy, no less – was, to appropriate Ovelia's analogy, a gear that didn't seem to fit into the mechanism of his agenda.

"If half of you thinks this is just another scheme, what does the rest of you think?" she asked, belatedly wondering if she shouldn't have been so blunt.

There was a telling moment of hesitation before Ovelia answered.

"What if…" she began tentatively, "what if, he isn't as far gone as I had believed? Not long ago, I had resigned myself to a loveless marriage for appearance's sake, perhaps with it, and I, ending once my usefulness to him did. After all that he had done, how every sign of a brighter future he's brought to Ivalice was birthed from treachery and innocent blood, I had thought him beyond redemption. That he'd continue to aid the common man with one hand while using the other to indulge his lust for revenge and validation."

Here, she paused, her eyes going distant while unseen phantoms paraded in her vision.

"But, what if I was wrong?" she wondered aloud. "What if he can be redeemed? And, tarnished though it may be, what if his promise for a better chance for us, and for all of Ivalice, might yet be made real?"

Alma smiled at the news. reaching across the table to catch Ovelia's hand in a gentle squeeze. As if Izlude's revival wasn't joyous enough, the hope that Delita's soul, not to mention his marriage to Ovelia, could still be saved, was a cause for celebration.

Ovelia did not look to be quite of like mind, at least not yet, for the hope she felt was too fragile. Yet, she nonetheless found herself smiling as well. And, it was not her pantomiming the motions of a smile from memory, as she had done when she was finally reunited with Alma and Agrias. No, small and fragile though it was, this smile was genuine. One of hope, guarded though it was. She hadn't felt such hope in God knows how long.

Though some might call her foolish, or even less flattering terms, she could admit that, despite all her husband had done in the past, Ovelia still loved him. Most people, if they knew the truth about Delita's ascension to the throne, of how much innocent blood had been spent for their brighter futures, would say he didn't deserve her affections. Or the affections of the people, or his crown, for that matter. Under other circumstances, the queen might have agreed. But, after learning what she had just the night before, a seed of doubt had taken root amid Ovelia's resigned acceptance of living her life as a scepter, a tool wielded by the true ruler of Ivalice. She might not be ready, at least not completely, to believe in the man she had pledged her heart to once again. But, she could find it in herself to take the chance that happiness had not flown from her grasp after all.

Much like she had encouraged Alma to gamble upon a second chance at a brighter future, perhaps she could take that same risk and prevail?

And, perhaps, the happiness that her dear friends, Alma and Agrias, were blessed with may yet still be hers as well.

SSSSSS

Perhaps it was to confirm that Delita had truly shed his monstrous, hidden persona before she rolled the not-entirely-figurative dice. Or, maybe she, like Layla herself, wanted to hear the rest of the story. Either way, Ovelia gauged the approximate time Delita would enter Layla's chambers and, armed with that knowledge, slipped in ahead of him.

Concealed in the adjoining room, she acted as the sole witness to a tale that every gossip-monger in Lesalia would happily sell their second home, several distant relations, and one or two favorite servants to possess: a candid view of the Peasant King's early years.

And, Ovelia could see just why such a tale would be so coveted. She had long since known that Delita's grasp of speech-craft was nothing short of artful, but he apparently was also a gifted storyteller. Layla listened, nearly enraptured, as Delita recounted how the unlikely band had discovered where Marquis Emldor was being held, the unexpected signs that his abduction represented a split between those faithful to the Corpse Brigade's avowed mission and those who simply wanted to survive by any means necessary, and Weigraf's even less expected choice to let the small band take the Marquis when he could've easily slain the lot of them.

As was the case earlier, Delita held little back about Algus. In tones heavy with longing for simpler times, or perhaps the chance to return to those times and guide them down a different course, he spoke of how, as days and then weeks passed since their first meeting, Algus seemed to learn the value of teamwork and came to respect most of his unexpected squad-mates. But, later, his expression would darken as he recalled how Algus treated a defeated enemy, his words so thick with vitriol that they seemed to singe the very air around him. Given that the men and women to whom he directed these scathing invectives were found by his fellows to be honorable and worthy adversaries – not to mention how kicking and beating them while they were bound hand and foot was a flagrant contravention of the chivalric code – his behavior caused that budding fellowship to sour.

"I don't think I'll ever forget the look on Dame Miluda's face as she staggered away from us that night," Delita intoned, his gaze abstracted. "There was such anger, such loathing, as though she would've found it more palatable to have been killed by us than to be spared by us. Algus wanted to oblige her, vehemently, but the vote of our company was solidly against him. He was not pleased. Indeed, he echoed Miluda in deriding our pity."

This wasn't the first time Delita had implied, or even flatly stated, that Layla's late older brother was no saint, but it was certainly the most jarring. Layla wore a solemn expression, one hopelessly out of place on so young a face, and her brow furrowed in deep, unhappy concentration. Perhaps what was left of her innocence was straining against the revelation that such hatred not only existed in the world but had hit so close to home.

"I also remember how…conflicted I felt back then," Delita admitted, shattering several preconceptions widely embraced by the populace in so doing. "The Corpse Brigade were, in a very real way, much like myself. Common people who volunteered to serve their king and country in a time of war, embarking on missions that should have been suicidal and yet prevailing. But, when the time came for the kingdom to honor its debt to them, it did not. Oh, granted, it could not – rather difficult to pay soldiers with money that doesn't exist – but the slight was palpable all the same."

Here, he paused and heaved a deep sigh, his expression dispirited. Ovelia – and, most likely, Layla as well – wondered what might lurk beneath that solemn countenance. Was he wondering, perhaps, if he had been on the wrong side of that particular conflict, or if it might've ended differently had he defected, as no small number of others had? He might've been wondering if he would've been happier had the war with the Corpse Brigade somehow been averted, or even if Ramza's sincerely held but naive wish for a peaceful resolution had been made real.

Or, was he simply remembering the faces of those he had killed, before he took a fancy to the act, and simply wondered why things couldn't have unfolded differently?

"I could understand why Miluda hated nobles – or, in my case, commoners who dressed in a noble's wardrobe – but, the people she wanted dead were the same people who had given me a home and a purpose when Teta and I had had no one else to turn to," he continued. "Yet, I also knew that I was not born a noble like my well-dressed fellow cadets. When Miluda spat the question of whether we knew what it was like to be hungry, I did know. The acquaintance was brief, but memorable."

Here, he paused and heaved a heavy sigh, that distant look flitting across his face again before he shook himself back to attention.

"I had been born as one thing, yet raised as another. So, "which was I", I wondered? In a manner of speaking, I never truly found an answer." Here, a self-deprecating chuckle passed his lips. "Ironically, I also remember feeling a twinge of envy towards Algus. I saw no confusion, no doubt, no crisis of identity in his eyes. He knew what he was, what he wanted, and had a serviceable plan to get it. Maybe that envy, and my own uncertainty, was why I failed to see just how things would end between us."

Layla likely sensed that this next chapter would not be a happy one, for her still fragile body tensed and her breathing quickened. The effect spread to Ovelia like some manner of contagion, and she gnashed her teeth together to prevent her ragged breaths from betraying her. Still oblivious to the unseen second member of his audience, Delita continued to describe the attempted abduction of Catherine and the successful abduction of Teta.

By way of explanation for why the Corpse Brigade would take them, he explained that the two "cousins" had used a portion of their wages to buy their sisters fine gowns which, to an untrained eye, could cause one to mistake them for a pair of young nobly born ladies. For good measure, he added that the pair had been attending a small party at Beoulve Manor, accompanying their benefactor, Sir Gareth Grimbold, who Ovelia presumed was standing in for the elder Beoulves in this tale.

Whatever other changes Delita might have undergone, or would undergo, Ovelia could not help the cynical observation that he still knew how to keep his lies consistent.

The small band had arrived too late to prevent the abduction, learning of it some hours after the fact from their "benefactor" Sir Gareth. From his sickbed, the alleged senior knight had assured them that Teta would be rescued, And, though Drake accepted this vow, Delita admitted he was far from calm about the situation. On top of that, this was followed by how he recounted the final split between their company and Algus after the latter's callous, but accurate, assertion that so vital a mission would never be risked for the sake of a peasant girl. The story moved tremulously to the standoff at Fort Zeakden until, finally, the inevitable came to pass.

"Algus killed Teta, didn't he?" Layla asked sadly, her tone suggesting that she already knew the answer.

"Yes, he did," Delita confirmed, his tone matter of fact. "And then I killed him."

Ovelia felt herself tense. Though her conversation with Alma meant that she had foreseen this revelation, she hadn't truly expected Delita to admit to it, especially not so directly. And, of course, she tensed for another reason entirely: Delita had revealed a glimpse of just who he was beneath his veneer of the munificent monarch.

Those who caught such glimpses never survived unscathed, and some didn't survive at all.

If there was a moment that might crush, finally and forever, her guarded hope that Delita might shed the monster that had birthed in him at Teta's death, this was it. Would the monster invent some shackles for Layla, as he had for Olan, Balmafula, Ramza, or even Ovelia herself? Or would he simply smother her to death as Alma had postulated not long ago?

Or would her dire expectations, at long last, be defied?

Surprisingly, Layla did not seem to share Ovelia's dread. Her eyes were downcast, glassy, as though tears threatened. Yet, for some reason, Ovelia was certain that Layla's tears were not for herself, nor were they of fear.

Were those tears for Algus, the brother who might've lived had he not allowed his hatred to control him?

Were they for Teta, the gentle soul who was foully murdered through no fault of her own?

Maybe they were for Delita, who had drenched his hands in blood to build a better future for Ivalice only for the blood to sear flesh and soul alike?

Before Ovelia could find an answer, Delita spoke once more.

"You remember how I said that Algus's pride had been the death of him?" he asked, to which both members of his audience nodded. "Well, now you know why. He, who was the scion of a noble house, was nonetheless a pariah amongst his peers while Teta, Drake, Catherine, and myself were living the life that had been denied him due to someone else's crime. He was a brave and skilled warrior, as I've said, and he was finally learning the importance of trusting one's fellow knights and acting as part of a unit. Given time, that might've allowed to make a name for himself that had nothing to do with his grandfather's dishonor."

"But, that didn't happen," Layla said, dabbing at her eyes.

"No, it didn't. I still don't know why he shot Teta. Maybe he truly did hate her for being a peasant raised as a noble's daughter, as he'd implied when we fought. Perhaps he was simply following orders. It's even possible he wasn't aiming for her at all. I don't truly know, and maybe I never will. All I do know is that, after that day, I made the same mistakes he'd made: I let my anger, my wounded pride, and my hatred make my decisions for me. Having realized how beguiled I had been by false promise skillfully delivered, I learned how to control others. Sometimes it was through soft spoken words and a charming smile, other times it was with words that promised death and a mouth full of fangs. Either way, I discovered, much to my surprise, that I was quite good at it. I even had Duke Goltana himself eating out of my hand, though he never realized it. Not until I killed him too."

Ovelia's jaw dropped. She recalled the horror and disbelief when she had first heard that same admission by chance and, shock getting the better of her, barged in to confront Delita for so foul a murder.

Granted, few earnest tears were shed for the late, unlamented Duke Goltana, but Delita's framing the brave and gallant Orlandu for the deed had been more than her sagging spirits and shredded innocence could take. She had condemned him, and he in turn had thrown her incredulity back in her face, the threat of what would result from further ingratitude unspoken and yet plain to see.

Had he drawn steel and decided she had outlived her usefulness then and there, she might've been less frightened.

Yet, here, he had admitted that very crime. At least, in part, and the man who spoke now and the man who had lambasted her back then could not have been more different. Where once she had seen a man enamored with his own burgeoning legend, and who not only could but had trampled those he'd professed to love in order to realize that legend, she now saw a man who'd finally seen the blood on his hands and lamented the sight.

"Had I simply buried and grieved for my sister, and then moved on with my life, perhaps that would've been the better choice," he went on. "Instead, I suddenly saw Algus in the face of every sneering noble, even those who'd done no wrong to those beneath them. By that same token, I also saw Teta in every lowborn whose life was a daily struggle at best or hell on earth at worst, simply by virtue of being born humbly. I wanted to change that, and so I did."

A smile, but one which had all the mirth of an outbreak of plague, tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"I had the trust, and even the regard, of one of the most powerful dukes in the kingdom. Yet, when I was in a position where I could have persuaded him to lower the ruinous taxes he was imposing upon the people he claimed to be fighting for, or to call truce with his enemies, I did not. Instead, I let him continue being such a magnificent scapegoat, the face of what I predicated my rule on changing, all while allowing the people I professed to be fighting for to suffer and even die, just so public sentiment would be behind me when I made my move."

Delita was apparently too deep in his reverie to notice, something else Ovelia knew to be distinctly out of character, but Layla had been scooting closer to him. Her expression was still solemn and attentive, underpinned by grief, but there was something else there. What it was exactly, Ovelia was not certain, but she was sure of one thing: despite the admission that Delita was responsible for her brother's death – and, by extension, her losing her home and what little remained of her fortune – she was not angry at him. Nor did she seem afraid that hearing these words meant her brief time on this earth was soon to end. As for what was running through her mind, Ovelia struggled to put word to it.

Perhaps it was something which, over the course of the War of the Lions, she had once known but lost touch with…yet, perhaps, might yet discover again?

"Algus died because his pride could not countenance a peasant having what he believed should be his," Delita continued, still not noticing Layla inching her way closer. "Goltana died, not only because he stood between me and my ambitions, but also because his desire to rule meant more to him than the lives of those he claimed to be fighting for. The same people whose suffering I allowed to happen so that he could dig himself a deep enough grave for me to topple him into, which I too rationalized away for the sake of my pride and ambitions." Here, his tone deepened into finality, and he regarded Layla with grim eyes that were weary of life long before their time. "Those were our mistakes. They cost Algus and Goltana their lives and their legacies, while mine cost me the trust and regard of the closest people I yet have to kin, my marriage, and being able to look myself in the mirror without feeling nauseated. Do not repeat those mistakes."

Those same dispirited eyes, however, nearly popped out of his head, along with Ovelia's, when Layla Sadalfas, the younger sister of his most hated enemy, did a very surprising thing: she leaned in and hugged him.

Both royals were too stunned for words.

One, a tremulous smile struggling to take shape on his face, brought up one trembling hand to gently stroke the little girl's flaxen tresses while the other spent long moments trying to pick up her lower jaw which, had it descended much further, would've cracked against the floor. Long moments later, her frail body apparently overtaxed by the effort, Layla fell back, gasping. Alarm evident in his expression, Delita caught her in his arms and eased her back onto her pillows. Though the little girl was flushed and heaving from the exertion, she didn't seem to be in any peril of her health, and Delita sagged with relief at this. Once Ovelia's lower jaw was back in place, she had to clench it shut to make sure her husband didn't realize this sight elicited one sigh too many.

In this particular meeting, Layla had said far less than she had during her prior conversation with the King of Ivalice. However, she did pose a question that set both adults in the room back on their heels.

"Will you still let me serve you when I'm better and bigger, even with what Algus did?"

Again, both royals were stunned.

"I can't do anything about Teta," Layla admitted. "But, I want to do something about the mistakes Algus made. And, I think you do too. If you didn't, they wouldn't bother you so much."

Part of Ovelia, a part that she had had long, sad acquaintance with since the crushing revelation that she was an unwitting double to the late, real Ovelia, wondered if Layla was as naive as Ramza had once been for her to utter such words. After all, had she not just heard Delita freely admit that he had been as monstrous as any of those he had toppled? But, another half, once whose voice she had very nearly forgotten, posed a very different question: could Layla's simple words be true? Or Delita's self-deprecating confession, for that matter?

Could Delita's contrition and Layla's forgiveness be genuine?

And, if so, could they hold the panacea for the wounded souls who hid beneath royal raiment even as Ivalice celebrated a new dawn following the long night that was the War of the Lions?

Ovelia considered the question with trepidation as Delita, looking remarkably moved by the gesture, plucked Layla's stuffed tiger off of a nearby table and handed it to the little girl. Before taking his leave, he regarded Layla silently for a long moment. A brief eternity later, the King of Ivalice gave his answer to the little girl's surprising question.

He also gave her what he had given few, if any, of the people who knew the grim truth about Ivalice's alleged savior: a choice.

"Whether you decide to enter my service will be your decision," he said simply. "Maybe a better course will present itself. If so, I'll not gainsay you if you decide to take it. But, for my part? Yes, I would treasure your service and your loyalty. Perhaps I might even earn it."

Tossling Layla's hair one last time, the King of Ivalice made to depart. Again, curiously, Delita paused at the door for a long moment. Only able to see his back, Ovelia could discern little but Layla, who had a clearer vantage point, regarded him with concern. Apparently not noticing her scrutiny or her quiet displeasure, Delita passed through the door and was gone. Her head abuzz with questions, Ovelia forced herself to settle in and wait for answers. Given that Layla was still recovering, and still quite young, the queen expected the little girl would nod off soon enough.

But, once again, her expectations were subverted.

Instead of settling against her pillows and dozing off, Layla shoved back her covers, swung her legs over the side of her bed, and stood.

Ovelia managed, barely, to choke down a gasp of shock, and concern.

Though she had overlooked that Layla did look better than she had earlier, merely too skinny rather than nigh skeletal, her still gaunt limbs, ragged breathing, and wobbly steps made it quite clear that it was much too soon for her to be on her feet. Were her legs to fail her, a fall against the unforgiving stone beneath could do serious harm.

But, then again, how was Ovelia to swoop in to bustle her back to bed without prompting a slew of exceedingly awkward questions?

With no answer forthcoming, and a stealthy escape impossible with the little girl showing no sign of sleeping any time soon, the Queen of Ivalice watched, struggling against the dread that crawled up and down her spine.

Layla, for her part, snatched up what appeared to be a finely whittled tree branch which had been propped up against one wall and, gripping it as she might a sword, began swinging it about the room. Surprisingly, she did not do so as would most children her age, flailing every which-where while imaginary foes scattered. Instead, perhaps owing to her study of Delita's old academy text, she swung it in clumsy but disciplined strokes, counting off as she did so and adjusting her stance and the angle of her swings as would any young student keen to learn and improve. She kept this up for long moments before she turned back to her stuffed tiger, which she had left perched on the bed.

"What do you think, Tiggy?" she asked.

Unsurprisingly, the stuffed tiger did not reply. Yet, despite this, Layla's eyes narrowed in agitation and her tone became slightly petulant.

"I know I need practice!" Layla intoned, sounding frustrated. "So, I'm practicing! That's elementary! I meant about what King Delita said."

Belatedly, Ovelia realized that Layla was "talking" to Tiggy while the little girl's imagination was supplying the latter half of the conversation. She found the effect rather adorable, at least until she recalled that Layla had likely developed the habit because no one else wanted to talk to her. The corners of her mouth drew downward at the reminder that she and Delita were not the only ones cheated by their births.

"Yes, I think he's telling the truth," Layla said, apparently in reply to Tiggy. "That bothers me. I don't remember much about Algus, but I do remember what mother told me about him. How he was going to save the family name and make sure I never needed to live in shame again. Or be poor again."

She punctuated this recollection with a thrust that left her overbalanced, and Ovelia's heart climbed into her throat as the fragile girl was left flailing for long, breathless moments before she caught herself against an end table and regained her equilibrium. Heaving gasps of air and using her "weapon" to prop herself upright, the queen desperately hoped the little girl would take the near-miss as a hint and return to her bed before she hurt herself, but Layla did not comply with this silent plea.

"Hey, no snickering!" she choked out at the grinning toy. "So rude!"

Layla crossed her arms, both of which were trembling with the effort, gave a petulant little huff, and then resumed her stance.

"As I was saying before someone interrupted me," she went on, "I don't remember much about Algus, but I do remember the letter he sent me. I was supposed to open it when I turned five, but…" And, here, Layla's face took on an expression recognizable by any parent whose child applied rather broad interpretations to the word "No", "but we just couldn't help ourselves."

Ovelia found herself wondering if it had been Layla who'd talked the stuffed animal into it or the other way around, and what either choice would signify regarding her state of mind.

Or Ovelia's own, for that matter, considering how she was overthinking the question.

"I could tell he was painting a rosy picture," she went on, "but I could see that he was in a state when he wrote it. Places where the pen was pressed against the parchment too hard, places where his handwriting wasn't as neat as the rest. And, the letter he sent to mother?"

She paused again, and this time her expression was one Ovelia could recognize far too easily.

She'd worn one just like it when she'd learned of Father Simon's murder, and the brief time she'd believed Agrias and Alma to be dead.

"I know I shouldn't have read that letter, since it wasn't mine," Layla admitted. "But, maybe I needed to. What Algus said there, about the Corpse Brigade and Delita…it was like there was a whole different side to him. A side a lot like what the king told me about. So, that's why I think he's telling the truth."

That, Ovelia was forced to admit, came as a surprise. She herself had been greatly hesitant to take anything Delita said at face value, and had been for quite some time.

After all, how could one trust a husband who might decide that his wife had outlived her usefulness and dispose of her in much the same way he did his own liege lord?

Yet, why would he lament the loss of his marriage if that were the case? Or losing the faith of Ramza and Alma, for that matter? Would such things not seem paltry sacrifices compared to the bloody crown he now wore?

Almost as if she'd caught the thought, Layla spoke again.

"It hurts that he killed Algus," she admitted. "No point pretending it doesn't. I'm still not sure why he wants me here. But, I know that I'd be dead if he hadn't sent people to find me. And, a knight must repay a debt of honor. It sounds like Algus didn't, so I'm going to."

For a long moment, Ovelia could only blink in stupefaction. Delita had freely admitted to killing this girl's brother, and yet she regarded him with gratitude. Guarded, yes, but it was apparent that, through the upending of her young life, she had learned that it was unwise to scorn the aid of any man who offered succor in a time of peril. There was no shortage of nobles who would never consider showing gratitude to a rescuer well beneath their station, and whose gratitude to a peer would be begrudging at best.

That lesson, it seemed, had sunk in quickly whereas Algus's failure to learn had contributed to his untimely end.

No less bizarre, while Layla was clearly upset about Algus' death and wanted him back, she'd had foreknowledge that he was far from perfect and had the constitution to both accept that and to want to make amends for her kin's wrongdoing.

This may very well have been the first time Ovelia had seen such a thing at all, let alone in such a warren of frivolity and excess.

In fact, it was also something she had never expected to see at all.

Strangely, she could feel a hint of warmth in the depths of her once numbed heart at the sight.

Once Layla had gotten her breath, she resumed her "training". Granted, she was quite far from matching the impeccable technique of Ramza, Agrias, or Delita, but Ovelia fancied that she could see the little girl improving by small degrees. It was also quite remarkable to see such dedication in one so young.

After a time, she stopped again, propping herself against a wall while rasping for breath, prompting Ovelia to weigh the risk of exposing herself against the potential harm to Layla should she pass out from exertion and fall. The queen could hear her heart pounding in her ears and marveled that Layla could not. In fact, the little girl carried on for a worrisome amount of time, alternating between slashes, slices, and stabs while periodically checking her technique against Delita's old textbook and soliciting Tiggy's opinion.

After a time, however, the "conversation" turned back to Delita.

"I don't much like the look I saw on the king's face when he got to the part about how Teta died," she mused aloud. "I remember the look on mother's face when she heard about Algus's death. It looked a lot like the king's did. So bleak, so sad, like she did not want to live anymore."

Here, Layla paused and lowered her branch, her expression darkening.

"And then, she…she…," she trailed off, her small shoulders trembling.

The little girl never did finish her sentence but, then again, she hardly needed to. By all accounts, Lady Alena Sadalfas had taken her own life by poison in the aftermath of her son's death. Not so long ago, Ovelia would have been aghast that a mother would leave behind a child who was far from ready to make her own way in the world, not to mention repulsed by the act of committing the ultimate Mortal Sin.

Of course, that had been before her own faith had been gravely shaken by the actions of the man she had married…and who, even now, seemed very different than she had supposed.

There had been days she almost wanted him to drop what pretenses remained and add her to his list of victims, if only so the waiting might end. But now, seeing one who should've preceded her in suffering that fate not only still drawing breath but regarding Delita with empathy rather than hatred had a question she yet feared to ponder rising to the forefront of her mind.

Was it possible that Delita had changed?

She still didn't have an answer, but she did have reason to ponder the question. And, even a few days ago, even having that much was unthinkable.

She could freely admit that she was not prepared to forgive him, or trust him, But, nor was she was prepared as she had once believed to condemn him. At least, not to a fate she could still find it in herself to not wish on her worst enemy.

"I don't want to see someone go through that sort of pain again," Layla affirmed through her sniffles. "Not if I can do something about it. I don't know if I can forgive Algus's death, not yet, but the king and I both need to learn from it. And, if there's nobody else to finish what Algus set out to do, then it's up to me."

Here, she paused and fixed Tiggy with a smile that held no small amount of entreaty.

"You'll help me do that, won't you?" she asked the stuffed animal and, a moment later, she added "Thank you, Tiggy. I knew I could count on you."

Again, Ovelia found herself suspecting the list of people Layla had that she could count on was a short one indeed. Conversely, she hoped that would change soon.

At the least, she could use a few friends who talked back.

Layla continued her impromptu drilling, and Ovelia continued fretting that the little girl might fall and snap a fragile bone or two on the stone floor, until, eventually, the little girl had apparently had enough. Leaning against both her "weapon" and a nearby wall, she sagged with exhaustion while Ovelia sagged with relief.

"Well, what do you think, Tiggy?" she asked her favorite (and, Ovelia suspected, sole remaining) toy.

Not having had much in the way of a normal childhood, Ovelia wasn't sure just how the notion of a toy talking back worked in the mind of a small child. Her early years had been, if not unhappy, then certainly austere and lonely, even if they had not been as harsh as Layla's had been. So, why Tiggy's "replies" seemed less-than-sycophantic was more than a little confusing.

"I beg your pardon?!" Layla blurted out, looking affronted. "Tiggy, that was rude. Yes, I'm working up a sweat, and an honest sweat feels good. But, there's no call to say I'm "stinky"!"

Ovelia had been almost amused at the strange but adorable scene, but she felt dread curdle in her gut when she realized just where this "conversation" was likely going.

After a long moment staring each other down, during which Tiggy might've been making some argument that Layla alone could hear, the little girl gave her underarm a quick sniff. The aroma, which must've been rather pungent, nearly caused Layla to turn green.

"On second thought, maybe you have a point, Tiggy," she admitted, almost sheepishly. "I think I should wash up a bit."

After taking a moment to get her breath and test her footing, Layla snatched up her "sword" and, using it as a crutch, began walking shakily towards the wash basin. Her guts turning to water, Ovelia glanced to her left and saw that the little girl's destination lay in her chosen hiding place, the water gently steaming from the heat of vessel of glowing charcoal.

Frantically, Ovelia tried to find somewhere she could conceal herself. The doorway leading into the room had only a curtain, which ruled out hiding behind the door. The sole table in the room had a tablecloth which only dangled two or three inches over the edge, offering no concealment there. Though there was a trunk in the room, she judged it too small for her to cram herself into, even in the unlikely event it was not stuffed with finery she'd need to dump out first. The suite's privy was around a corner, but there was every likelihood that Layla would pop in to use it. And, to top it all off, even if she was desperate enough, and/or deranged enough, to try clambering out of a window, there were none in the room.

In short, she was trapped.

A moment later, she was caught.

"WHO ARE YOU?!" Layla roared, though the outburst left her coughing and bracing herself against a wall. "Stay, I say, and declare yourself! I am Dame Layla Sadalfas the Unbroken, and you will explain your intrusion!"

Somehow managing to get her breath back after that lengthy declaration, Layla assumed a passable approximation of a fighting stance, the branch held in a one-handed grip while her free hand was extended for balance. Despite her obvious frailty and considerable disadvantage in size, she stared down Ovelia unflinchingly and looked fully prepared to deal some livid bruises if she did not like what the "intruder" had to say.

Ovelia had little fear for herself. Layla was clearly in no condition to do her any harm beyond purpling her face with a bruise or two, if even. No, she was far more worried for Layla herself. There was every possibility that the still recovering girl would hurt herself, perhaps seriously, if she did attack. And, on top of that, attacking the queen would do her no favors, even if she had only done so because she'd apparently had no idea what the queen looked like and had found her skulking about in her room like a common footpad.

Ovelia herself would come away with no worse than a bruise or two, but even that much would turn every head in the city, not to mention send all those wagging tongues gyrating anew.

Yet, how could she admit the truth without the risk that Delita would learn of her "intrusion" at a time not of her own choosing?

Unaware of Ovelia's inner tumult, Layla drew closer, angling her branch for an overhead swing.

"Give me your name and purpose, intruder, and I will reward your honesty with clemency," Layla intoned, her voice now sounding raspy. "Tell the truth!"

A simple demand, and yet Ovelia found herself baffled. For many years, she had believed herself to be Princess Ovelia Atkascha, sequestered at Orbonne Monastery in the hopes of averting national turmoil, only for this "truth" to disintegrate when Vormav Tingel and Cardinal Draclau, who apparently knew long before she did, revealed that she was merely a double. A living doll, whose history was unknown and considered irrelevant, found and made to sit in for another young woman long since dead.

After, she had believed that Delita, as much a prisoner as she of a life turned into a parody of contradictions, loved her and could create a better world for her. And, he had created a new world, founded upon treachery and birthed amidst a tide of innocent blood. Mere days ago, she had believed Delita to be every bit as ruthless as anyone he had toppled, perhaps more so since he foresaw their mistakes and avoided repeating them, and that any who stood in his way or outlived their usefulness, herself included, was living on borrowed time.

Yet, she had just finished watching him confess his sins to a child he had cause, callous though it seemed, to view as an enemy and treat accordingly. And, impossible though it seemed, she found herself at least considering the possibility that his contrition and regret was not one of his many masks.

One truth after another had been turned upside down, inside out, and toppled onto its side, leaving behind befuddlement and, by turns, cold cynicism and perplexity, which even now had hints of solace poking through the overcast.

Somewhere deep within, she could hear the Lonely Voice of Youth ask "What is Truth?"

As the Melancholy Voice of Adulthood was momentarily stumped for an answer, she decided to start with the only thing she was, reasonably, sure was true. Raising both hands in a conciliatory gesture, she knelt so she could look Layla in the eye and simply said "I'm not going to hurt you."

Co-Author's Note: Falchion1984 here. First, just in case anybody has forgotten, the character of Layla is drawn from a character of that same name from the fic Algus Returns by TimeCapsulesLost/TimeCapsulesLost2. If she is reading this, then I hope she likes the little homage we gave her work. Also, in case it wasn't mentioned earlier, "the Consumption" is the old school name for what we call Tuberculosis. That Layla was successfully treated for it in middle ages Ivalice was something I pulled out of my ass, along with the actual process, but I do hope it lends some gravitas with regards to how easily Layla might've died before she could enter this story and the potential implications therein. Again, my knowledge of medicine is NOT impressive, so feel free to send advice about how Layla's brush with death can be made less pulled-out-of-my-ass. In the meantime, enjoy!