(Updating every other Wednesday)\

Chapter 142: The Weight of a Name: Cid

Cidolfas Orlandeau was ready to die.

He sat cross-legged, his arms folded across his lap. He breathed deep, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He had not been consigned to the dungeons, but to an old supply closet in the high reaches of Bethla Garrison, thick with half-empty barrels and old linen. He wondered why they'd chosen this makeshift cell. Fear that his fellow "conspirators" would attempt a rescue, perhaps?

Idle questions. Cid let them cross his mind, considered them at a distance, and then let him float away. Always, he returned to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Always, he reminded himself that each breath could be his last.

He had begun this practice some forty years ago, on the eve of his first battle against the Ordallians. Dismissed from his duties to Captain Ronsenburg, Cid had sat in his little tent exactly like this, breathing exactly like this. It had not been nearly as easy then—his skin had been tight and itchy with anxiety, and his scalp had crawled with fears and doubts. He had swung a sword many times in his life, but this would be the first time he had swung it to try and kill another man. More importantly, this would be the first time anyone had swung a sword trying to kill him.

The intensity of his fear that night had been greater than any time before or since. But it was not the first time he had felt afraid. His father had taught him, when he was but a child, how to try and find this centered place, to breathe and feel in tune with his body, to feel his fear without letting it overwhelm him.

So he had sat, and breathed, and contemplated what the morrow would bring. He had seen horrific images in his head—of his blade whisking through men's necks like a butcher's knife through a chicken's throat, or of his throat being sliced open in their place. He had imagined all the great pains he'd felt in his life—the leg he'd broken when he was 9, the shallow stab wound he'd taken play-fighting with a friend when he was 11—and how much worse the pains of battle might be.

And there had been another, stranger fear, over all of those. That Cidolfas Orlandeau, whose swordmanship was praised even then, would prove himself a coward. A foolish child who rushed into battle, and found it was too much for him. He would dishonor his father. He would dishonor his name. He would dishonor himself.

He was not sure he had ever slept, on that eve of battle long ago. He had held himself still, and breathed, and let himself feel all his terrors. And when morning had come, he was still afraid. But somehow the fear had changed inside him, like melted metal that had cooled into a shape he could use. Because scared as he was of what the battle would bring, there were things he could control. He could control the sword in his hand, and how he used it. He could block the blades that would seek his throat. He could choose to hold his own blade at bay, should he be afraid of hurting someone who did not deserve to be hurt. And as for cowardice, well...cowardice was always a choice.

He had fought in that battle. He had taken no wounds (though his hands had shaken for hours afterwards, and the ache in his bones had not faded for days). He had carved men to pieces, and heard the screams of the dying, and carried Captain Ronsenburg back to the Healers' tent with his commanding officer's blood dripping down his shoulders and his gasps of agony in his ears. In some ways, the battle had been worse than he'd imagined. But he had not dishonored himself.

And so, when the fear became too much, he held himself just like this—legs crossed, hands upon his knees—and breathed, and thought. When the Romandans had attacked. When King Denamda IV had died. When the full force of the Ordallian army marched on Zeltennia. When the Hokuten had been driven from the Garrison, and the war had ground on.

When Balbanes had died.

The old grief cracked in his chest, as fierce as an old wound. He stopped his breathing for a moment, and let himself feel that pain. Balbanes, who had appeared already covered in glory from holding off an entire Ordallian platoon by himself, the famous son of a famous house. Balbanes, red-faced and laughing as he flung down his bad hand of cards and peeled off his tunic. Balbanes, naked with only his sword in his hand, raining fire down upon an Ordallian attack.

They'd been so young then. So young, and so strong. Capable of anything.

As their stars rose, they'd seen less and less of each other. The Beoulve name carried weight and expectation: everything Balbanes did was seen as the act of a future commander of the Hokuten. And as Cid won more victories,, and more and more authority was given to him, their responsibilities took them farther afield. Cid, locked in battle, could not attend Balbanes' wedding: Balbanes', given more and more responsibilities in Igros, could not come for Cid's father's funeral, or the accession ceremony that followed. Then the Choking Plague had taken Balbanes, while Ordallians marched on Ivalice.

Cid had seen many too many friends die (he remembered Reddas Durai, blood on his smiling lips as the light left his eyes). But the one he hadn't seen was the worst. Balbanes, you bastard. You should have died with a sword in your hand, and fear in your enemies' eyes.

And how will you die, Cidolfas Orlandeau?

He took a deep breath, and reached for serenity once more. Death was never pretty. Death was never pleasant. Cid would die soon: by public execution, by an assassin's knife, perhaps by some force he could not foresee. But he had not betrayed his oath, even when betrayal was expected of him. What else could he have done?

He could not say how long he'd been in this room when he heard the faintest voices from outside his door. A moment later, and there was the heavy thunk of a metal bar being moved. The door swung open, spilling faint light into the room from the hallway. A human figure stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

The figure looked down at him. Cid looked up at the figure. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

"I didn't take you for a fool, Count Orlandeau." Delita's voice was thin and sharp.

Cid shrugged. "Most people are."

A not-quite-laugh in the back of Delita's throat. "Yes. I suppose that's true." He shook his head. "Your lord falsely accuses you of treason, and you hand him your sword?"

Cid nodded. "I am no traitor." He paused, and studied Delita more closely. "No matter what others may say of me."

"And what does that matter?" Delita asked. "By tomorrow, half the Nanten you've led so well will think you a traitor like Glevanne."

"Was Glevanne a traitor?" Cid asked. "Or was that another lie you told, to cover your crimes?"

"I can cover my crimes with the truth just as easily as lies," Delita answered. "He'd been working with Dycedarg since before his father died."

Cid managed not to wince. He had known Glevanne all that long, in the scheme of things: the Chancellor was always busy at home, while Cid's work as commander of the Nanten took him afield. But he had thought the man an ally, albeit a timid one. Had he truly been so corrupt?

Aloud, Cid said, "But in my case, lies were better than the truth."

"Lies and truth, mixed together," Delita said. "You've spoken against the war. You've looked for peaceful solutions. Your friendship with the Beoulve family is well-known. All we had to was lie about some of your other connections. There are men in your ranks selling information to the Hokuten."

"Just as there were men in the Hokuten selling information to us," Cid said. "But I suppose no one wants to look too closely."

"Why would they?" Delita asked. "Viscount Blanche still wants his vengeance. Duke Goltanna wants his throne. And as for the Bishop...he wants what the Church wants."

Something in Delita's voice there. Cid studied Delita more closely still. "And you, Ser Heiral?"

Delita said nothing. The darkness in the room was nearly complete: only thin shafts of light leaked through the heavy door to sketch his silhouette.

"Do you know the difference?" Delita asked. "Between Prince Larg and Duke Goltanna? Prince Larg uses pretty words to hide the horrible things he does from others. Duke Goltanna uses pretty words to hide the horrible things he does from himself."

Cid scoffed. "You're wrong."

"Am I?" Delita asked. "How did he explain his betrayal to you?" Another not-quite-laugh from Delita. "Or rather, how did he explain your betrayal to you?"

Cid said nothing. Many hours later, the memory still chilled him. He took a deep breath, to steady himself.

Into his silence, Delita continued, "Do you remember the Council meeting six months ago, Count? When you argued for the end of the war?"

"When you argued against me?" Cid retorted.

Delita nodded. "I did. But I will remind you...even before I spoke, no one was on your side. They planned to hike taxes, and turn back refugees. Does that strike you as the way a king behaves?"

"And you told him what he wanted to hear," Cid growled.

"I did," Delita replied. "And he listened. Because Duke Goltanna is a coward."

Cid started to snap at Delita, but his memory of the throne room was too strong.

"He's a coward," Delita repeated, into Cid's silence. "He knows what the right thing is. He knew Louveria was a tyrant. He knew Ovelia was innocent. He knows he should trust you, and listen to you, and end this war. But every one of those things would cost him personally. His ambitions. His wealth. Perhaps even his life. So he waited, until he was forced. Waited, until someone told him just the right pretty lie, so he could do the ugly thing he wanted to do."

Cid said nothing. He remembered the look in Goltanna's eyes, as he'd spit his accusations at Cid. Cid's years of service had meant nothing. Not when Goltanna had a story he preferred.

"What are you doing here, Ser Heiral?" Cid asked.

"I've been given your command," Delita said. "I've been given your title. I've even been given your sword." He swung a sheathed blade from underneath his cloak, and laid it in front of Cid. "I figured the least I could do was give you another."

Cid blinked down at the sword. He blinked up at Delita. Then he moved.

His breathing exercises calmed him, but they served another purpose, too. They had been his first key to harnessing his magic—to blending it with his body and his awareness. With Excaligard in his hands, the power would be easier to use...but Delita's sword was a Mage Knight's sword. It would do.

He whirled up from the ground, kicked the sheathed sword into the air, spun around Delita so they were back-to-back. Delita started to turn, far too late: Cid snapped two swift kicks to the back of his knees, and before young Heiral could hit the ground, he whipped around, snaked his left arm around Delita's chest and snapped his hand over his mouth mouth. His right hand snatched at the falling sword, drew it from its sheathe and slid it so one edge rested against the crook of his left arm while the other just touched Delita's throat.

The sheathe hit the ground with a muffled thumph.

"I am going to lower my hand in a moment," Cid said softly, into Delita's ear. "I want to hear you explain yourself. But I have a sneaking suspicion I might hear only the right mix of truth and lies, to get me to do what you want me to do. So I feel I should make something clear." He moved the golden blade the barest fraction of an inch, so it pressed more closely against Delita's throat. "I swore an oath to Druksmald Goltanna. That he intends to break his oath does not absolve me of mine. But I swore no such oaths to you, Delita Heiral. Say the wrong thing, and you die here."

Delita had not moved since Cid had brought his blade to his throat. Slowly, Cid released his grip, and held his blade to Delita's shoulder, as Delita bore his own weight again. The boy did not try to look back at him. His shoulders began to shake.

With a start, Cid realized he was muffling his laughter.

It was a strange sound—squashed squeaking and grunting, sharp and cynical and yet somehow childish as well. He slowly raised himself upright, and turned ever-so-slightly, so Cid could just make out the edge of his profile, and see his wide smile.

"I never got to see Balbanes fight," Delita whispered. "Would it have looked like that?"

Cid blinked. His eyes burned. Balbanes, you old fool...Balbanes, you beautiful soul. Balbanes, bright and sharp and daring, with cards in his hand or a woman on his arm but always a laugh upon his lips. Balbanes, who would surprise you with sudden moments of thoughtfulness, soulfulness. Balbanes, with a sword in either hand, bringing a tsunami of white flame down upon his enemies.

"No," Cid said softly. "He was...like a Mage Knight. But...so much more."

Delita nodded. "That's what I'd heard." He held himself still. "His son, Ramza...he fights a little like you."

Ramza. Cid had met the boy and his little sister just the once: there had been a rare stalemate on the Ordallian front, and Balbanes had asked him to Viscount Blanche's villa on the coast of southern Gallione. Zalbaag and Dycedarg had been busy on official business, so it was just the five of them, and the wide sea. Alma been a firecracker, always running away and plunging into the sea: the corners of Cid's mouth tugged up as he remembered her bobbing in the waves, pulling away from Balbanes and Reina as they had swum out to get her and laughing at their desperation. Ramza had stayed obediently on the shore, giggling as the sea lapped at his feet.

How long ago now? 13 years? 14? 16?

"He's a heretic," Cid said stiffly.

"Your son likes him well enough." Delita paused. "He likes your son, too."

Cid stared at him. "What?"

"He told me himself." Delita turned slightly, so he could better look at Cid.

"You...spoke with him."

"He's my friend," Delita said. "Always has been. Always will be. I've saved his life. He's saved mine. And together..." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Together, we're trying to stop this war." After a moment, he added, "I sent your son to help him."

A lightning bolt raced down Cid's spine. "Olan...he's alright?"

Delita nodded. "Evaded Nanten patrols, slipped back into the fortress...thought he might try and save you." He shrugged. "I convinced him otherwise."

"Did you?" Cid asked.

Delita nodded again. "Too many people wanted this war. The Church is set to come out on top...but according to Ramza, there may be more to that plot than meets the eye." He shook his head. "Either way...the plan calls for Hokuten and Nanten alike to be slaughtered, and their leadership beheaded. The hoped you and Goltanna would kill each other, but they're ready to do the job themselves. They can still point the finger at you when it's done." He finally turned to face Cid. Cid made no move to stop him. "I thought I'd offer you a better option."

"What option would that be?" Cid asked.

"Ramza and Olan will find a way to stop this battle."

Cid shook his head. "It cannot be done."

"It will," Delita said. "It has to."

"I did not take you for an idealist, Ser Heiral."

"I'm not," Delita said. "If the battle breaks out, our kingdom ends. Too many people will die." He nodded towards the sword in Cid's hand. "That sword once belonged to Wiegraf Folles. He saw the cost our kingdom paid for the greed of the powerful. He wanted to build a better world." He closed his eyes. "I'm...trying to make that world. So is Ramza. So is Olan." He paused again. "I think you are too."

They locked eyes. Neither of them spoke for a few moments.

"What are you doing here, Count Orlandeau?" Delita asked

"What do you mean?" Cid replied.

"You could have killed Duke Goltanna," Delita said. "That's what the Bishop thought you'd do. But even if you didn't kill him, you could have broken out of the throne room. A man like you...you could have fought your way free."

"If I did that," Cid answered. "Then everyone would believe him. They would believe I was a traitor."

"So what?"

"So..." Cid trailed off. "So what?" He felt the same anger he'd felt in the throne room. "I will not dishonor my name. I will not dishonor myself."

"What dishonor is there in fleeing an unjust ruler?" Delita retorted. "And what honor is there in dying pointlessly when you could live to serve a higher cause?"

"What cause would that be?" Cid asked.

"Justice!" Delita snapped. "Service!" One hand cut through the air like a knife. "You noble fools! House Orlandeau, House Beoulve, House Larg, House Goltanna! Every one of you would rather hide behind pretty words then try to make those words a reality!" He took a step towards Cid. "You are a soldier. Olan is a solider. I am a soldier. Ramza is a soldier. Our job is to do nasty, violent things. The best of us—the ones we look up to, the ones we admire, the ones we try and protect—try to do those nasty, violent things to make a world where those things we do won't ever have to be done again." He jabbed a finger at Cid's chest. "I thought you were one of them."

Cid stared at him. He heard the anger, the indignation, the desperation in his voice. He'd known Delita Heiral for close to a year now. This was the first time he thought he'd seen the real man behind the civil mask he'd worn, all this time.

"If you wanted me to fight my way free," Cid said. "You could have sent Olan after me."

"Olan could free you, or he could help Ramza," Delita said. "He couldn't do both. Besides...with you inside the fortress..."

Cid's anger flared up once more. "You intend for me to betray the Nanten?"

"The Nanten betrayed you, Count Orlandeau," Delita said. "And you repaid that betrayal by sparing the men who held you at swordpoint and the lord that commanded them. But forget that for a moment. If you want to save the Nanten? You have to sow enough chaos so that the Church's agents don't know whether to strike or not."

Cid raised his sword again. "I warned you not to mix truth with lies."

"How have I lied?" Delita asked.

Cid shook his head. "How did Balbanes raise a thing like you?"

"Balbanes raised Dycedarg Beoulve," Delita said mildly. "But that's besides the point. Dycedarg Beoulve took me in when my parents died, like you took Olan in when Reddas-"

Cid pointed the sword at Delita's throat. "Keep his name out of your mouth."

Delita stepped forwards, so Cid could feel his neck pressing against the point of the blade. "Balbanes is one of my fathers, as you are one of Olan's. But don't you dare look down on me, Cid." He spat Cid's name. "I have fought across the length and breadth of Ivalice. I have done things I am proud of, and things I am ashamed of, and things that haunt me because I don't know which is which. I don't know how Balbanes would feel about me. But Ramza Beoulve is hated and hunted in every corner of Ivalice, and he is still trying to save us, and he loves the name Beoulve no less than you love the name Orlandeau. I know great men, Cid. I hoped you were one of them. But if I'm wrong...if you are too cowardly to abandon the pretense of honor to serve the substance of it...then kill me now."

They locked eyes again. Cid held himself very still, then lowered the sword. "What exactly are you asking of me?"

"Whatever Ramza and Olan do..." Delita replied. "I imagine they'd be better off if you draw some eyes away from them." He nodded towards the door behind Cid. "There's a war room not far from here, with a secret passage in one of the walls. When the time comes, fight your way there, in whatever way seems best to you." Delita stepped past Cid. "I'll handle the rest."

"Delita," Cid said, as Delita passed him. Delita stopped obediently. "This better world you're trying to make...what would it look like?"

Delita stared at the door for a moment. "A world where justice comes to those who deserve it. A world where strength is used to serve the weak, rather than to dominate them . A world where birth means less character and ability. A world where...where no more innocents must be sacrificed." He shook his head. "A better world."

"And these things you're ashamed of," Cid said. "How much justice have you spared the deserving? How much of your strength has in been in service to others?" He turned to face the boy fully. "How many innocents have you sacrificed to get here?"

Delita looked back at him. He did not speak. Neither did Cid.

Finally, he jerked his head back towards the piled boxes. Cid nodded, picked up the fallen sheathe and replaced the golden-bladed sword inside of it, and took his seat again. He tucked the sword among the boxes, and closed his eyes, and started breathing.

He did not trust Delita Heiral. The truth in his words was cruel and callous, and buried in lies and half-truths. But he had reminded Cid of what he'd said to Goltanna: he was a soldier, whose job was to do nasty, violent things, in service to a higher cause. Delita would hardly be the first untrustworthy man Cid had worked with, to serve a higher cause.

Besides...he had called Balbanes his father. And Cid could not dishonor his old friend's memory by refusing to listen to one of his sons.

So Cid sat, and waited, and gathered his strength. His strength of arm, and his strength of will...and his strength of heart. Because Delita had spoken another truth, harder to accept than the others, but no less necessary. It did not matter if they called Cidolfas Orlandeau a traitor. What mattered was if Cid betrayed them. That was the heart of honor.

So Cid would save them, if he could. The Nanten, and his old liege lord. Whatever it cost him.