(Sorry for the delay, folks. Been busy and sick. Setting the next update for 1/10/24, to give me time to catch up. Happy Holidays.)

Chapter 150: Those Left Behind

"Is that really necessary?" Beowulf asked, as Lavian and Radia carefully wrapped bandages around Ramza's face.

"After Bethla Garrison?" Zalbaag replied. "Absolutely. The Church is saying he might wield the powers of a Lucavi. They've carried his description to every corner of Ivalice."

"They've carried all of our descriptions!" Beowulf shouted, from his place behind the bar.

"Are you...jealous?" Melia asked.

Beowulf scowled, but did not answer. Ramza cleared his throat, and tapped Radia on the wrist. "I think he's trying to say that the rest of us are staying in here," Radia said, squeezing his hand.

"Here" was a dilapidated bar, thick with dust. Most of the chairs were missing: a few sofas and couches were sunken wrecks. Curiously, the walls were lined with bookshelves: Malak had only been in a handful of bars in his life (working the bars and pubs had been Berkeley's purview), but none of the ones he'd seen, and far fewer of the ones he'd heard of, had stuck him as particularly scholarly.

"It's different, anyways," Radia said, stepping back from Ramza. "They wanted us caught, but they didn't want us getting too much attention, either. Think that goes double for you guys, with Bremondt. Now..."

Zalbaag had gone slightly pale. "I don't need to hear about you killing another Cardinal."

"He was asking for it," Beowulf said, taking another sip from the dusty bottle in his hand.

"What do you think?" Radia asked Lavian.

"I think it's as good as we're going to do," Lavian answered. "Besides...no one's going to be looking for him next to the Knight-Commander of the Hokuten."

"Then why didn't we bring Cid?" Beowulf asked.

"They've carried my brother's description to every corner of Ivalice," Zalbaag said. "But they wouldn't need to carry Count Orlandeau's description. There's people here who know his face." He managed a half-smile. "Those were all his reasons, too."

Radia hugged Ramza. "Be safe," she whispered.

"You too," Ramza squeezed her shoulders, and looked around the room. "You all...you didn't have to..." He trailed off, shaking his head and laughing under his breath. "Sorry. I know better than to try to talk you out of it."

"The same way we know better than to try to talk you out of it," Agrias said, snatching a bottle from beneath the bar. "We'll be here when you decide what to do."

Ramza nodded, and looked back to his brother. "Shall we?"

"You remember your cover story?" Zalbaag asked.

"Claudia Rosfield's nephew. Your leprous cousin." Ramza chuckled. "Not so different from what I am now, no?"

Zalbaag paled again. It was a moment before he spoke. "And your name?"

"Joshua Rosfield."

Zalbaag nodded again. "Come on."

He started to head down the cellar steps, to the door that led to the little courtyard out back. But he had not made it more than a few steps before he was forced to stop. Radia was standing in his way.

"You'll keep him safe," Radia said firmly.

Zalbaag glanced over his shoulder. "Surprised you're not standing with her."

Beowulf raised his bottle. The smile on his face was cold. "Do I need to?"

"It's alright," Ramza said firmly. "We'll be fine."

Zalbaag led him down the stairs. The door creaked open, then closed. For a little while, no one spoke.

"You knew him before, right?" Malak asked, looking back at Beowulf.

Beowulf shrugged. "Not well. He'd already graduated from the Academy before I was old enough to remember much. And when they brought me out to Igros...well." He smiled fondly. "I didn't spend much time at the Manor." He waved his bottle vaguely at the bar around them. "He met us here, once. A long time ago." His smile saddened. "I was your age."

A long time, he said, and Malak believed him. He looked at how empty this place was, and wondered when it had failed. He was used to more spectacular ruins. Like Riovanes. Like Galthena.

"It was still open last summer," Radia said, taking a seat at the bar. "Struggling, though."

"Never did much business," Beowulf said, sliding her a drink. "Think Zalbaag helped keep it open. I imagine when the war started..." He sighed.

"Bars aren't the biggest loss we've seen." Lavian sat down on one of the barstools.

"There are many kinds of loss." Beowulf took another drink, then glanced at Mal. "You want one?"

Mal blinked. "What?"

"You're old enough."

"I-" Malak didn't know what to say. He was not supposed to drink. That had been part of his training. It was important for all of them, but most important, for the captain of Barinten's Hand.

He winced. Couldn't stop thinking that way. No matter how he tried.

"I'll take one," Rafa said.

Malak looked back over his shoulder. Rafa had been perusing the books on the shelves, but was now ambling over to the bar.

"You..." Bewoulf frowned. "You might be too young."

"I don't think you get to both ask me to smack cannonballs out of the air and turn me down when I ask for a drink." Rafa took a seat at the bar.

"Hm. Fair point." Beowulf started pulling bottles off the shelf, studying them.

Rafa looked over her shoulder. "You coming?"

Malak hesitated, just a moment longer. The only time in his life he'd been drunk had not been a pleasant experience. One night, Barinten had prepared for them a little feast, complete with mead, and encouraged each of them to drink. Halfway through the feast, when the honeyed wine had firmly gone to their heads, the Khamja had sprung an ambush upon them.

It had effected all of them badly. Berkeley had been caught almost at once: Clara's magic hadn't worked properly, so she tried to slow her attackers down and ended up slowing herself: Malak had felt so clumsy and awkward, and could barely fight off one attacker, much less the half-dozen who had closed on him; Clarice had flung herself into the ceiling trying to leap away. Rafa, bless her, had managed to fight off her attackers and had tried to come to their rescue, but even she hadn't been able to hold against the numbers of Khamja pouring into the room.

Afterwards, stinging and aching from the blows they'd taken from the Khamja, Barinten had Healers tend to them, offered them water and explained that this was a different kind of awareness they had to have—to be mindful of how others might tempt them. Danger could come at any time. Now, Malak wondered it it hadn't been another way of practicing his cruelty. Of reminding them that they could never afford to lower their guard or relax. Even when the man they trusted offered them rest and reward. Rest and reward were for other creatures—creatures who didn't belong to the Grand Duke.

"Why not?" he asked at last, following his sister.

It was dangerous to drink here. Igros was not a safe place for them. They had known that from the moment they had decided to come here. While Mustadio had frantically sorted through the books in Daravon's library and the documents he'd taken from the Foundry, trying to find information on how to identify Mosfungus, the rest of them had tried to decide what to do, with what they'd just seen. One way or another, they would have to confront Dycedarg Beoulve. He had a Stone, and they all knew first-hand what horror a Stone could wreak in the wrong hands.

But things were even more complicated than that. In Malak's other journeys across Ivalice, he and his allies had either been shielded by his liege lord's authority, or been able to lose themselves in the chaos of the War of the Lions and the civil war in Limberry. That time was over now: their victory at Bethla Garrison had forestalled the war, and now two intact armies brooded over their territory. They had Zalbaag Beoulve to protect them...but if the wrong faces were recognized, perhaps even the Knight-Commander of the Hokuten would not be able to keep them safe.

So they had decided that a smaller company would make the journey to Igros. Mustadio, Alicia, Reis, and Cid would stay behind—Mustadio and Alicia to continue their magical and mechanical work, Reis to continue her recovery, and Cid to avoid any negative attention. Zalbaag would escort their caravan, claiming they were a new delegation from Mullonde. And if Zalbaag found Mosfungus mushrooms on his father's grave, he would have evidence to offer to the Hokuten, when he led them to arrest Dycedarg Beoulve.

But Malak was still so afraid. The last time they'd divided their company, to chase Cardinal Bremondt...they had won, but it had been so unbelievably dangerous. And in the Archipelago, the sea had been their ally—their enemies were few, and could not be everywhere at once. They were in Igros this time, capital of Gallione and seat of the Hokuten's power.

Yeah. It's dangerous. So was attacking Bethla Garrison.

But stopping the war had been so dreadfully necessary. Malak knew firsthand the horror that awaited anyone who died before their time in Ivalice. The scale of that horror—the scale of the suffering that must encompass so many souls—still terrified him. And that terror had helped him to fight, even knowing how dangerous it was.

This...this was different. More ordinary. More familiar. A nobleman who would hurt even those who loved him to get what he wanted. The suffering such men could cause was different...but no less frightening. They could be so cruel, so capricious, to those in their power.

So here they sat. Lying in waiting. Hiding from one Beoulve they plotted to ambush. Sipping at the sour drink Beowulf had poured from him (the sweet drink Beowulf had first offered him had felt too horribly familiar) Malak almost laughed. Of course he felt strange. The last time he had laid in wait for a Beoulve, his entire life had been upended. Was it about to happen again?

"Ramza...told me about this place," Radia muttered, staring fixedly at her drink. "You...came here with Teta. Yeah?"

Bewoulf nodded. "And Alma, too. And Delita. And..." He closed his eyes. "Argus. Can't believe he apologized."

"Neither can I." Radia's voice was cold.

Silence in the room.

"Do we need to talk?" Beowulf asked

Radia shrugged. "What's there to say?" She sipped at her drink. "You killed people I cared about, trying to save someone you cared about." She closed her eyes. "We both failed."

Malak recognized the pain in her bearing, in her voice. He'd felt that pain too often himself.

"Who were they?" Malak asked.

Radia blinked. "What?"

"Who were they?" Malak asked again. "The Valkyries?"

Radia shrugged. "Veterans." She looked away. "Every one of them was...brilliant."

Beatrix, who had once dueled five Hokuten soldiers to a draw. Damietta, tireless as a chocobo. Arlette, an archer who could find prey even in the most barren, empty patches of campground you might lay your head down. Stout Emilie, who had held off an entire division of Limberry soldiers to buy her friends time to escape. Justina, who killed with a smile. Farron, whose friends called her Fang, sharp-tongued and ever-smiling. And Miluda Tengille, who had led the Corps alongside her brother. Who had seemed unbreakable.

"She learned everything I could teach her, as fast as I could teach her." Radia shook her head. "Think she could have been a brilliant Vampire Knight, if..."

She trailed off. The grief in her voice, in her poise, was still evident, but it had changed in talking about her fallen comrades. It didn't seem to weigh on her in quite the same way.

"I'm still sorry," Beowulf said softly.

"So am I." Radia shook her head. "Arlette...Justina...they deserved better. They all deserved..." She sighed. "Maybe that's why Wiegraf..."

"It is an awful weight," Agrias said.

The others looked up at her. Agrias still had her eyes firmly shut.

"They die, on your orders, for your cause," Agrias said. "They die because they believe what you tell them."

"We chose this, Captain," Lavian said softly.

Agrias shrugged. "You did. Katherine...Ysabel..."

"What were they like?" Malak asked again. So many unknown soldiers, who had fallen long before he had ever known any of these people. He found he wanted to know more about the people they had lost along their way.

"Young." In the short time Malak had known her, he wasn't sure he had ever heard her voice so raw. "So young."

"Younger than us?" Rafa asked.

Agrias cracked one blue eye. "Older," she answered. "But only just."

Rafa shrugged. "You seem to have no compunction about the two of us fighting."

"One of you is mostly bulletprooof, and one of you died and got better," Agrias grunted. "It's not quite the same thing."

Rafa cocked her head. "Katherine and Ysabel weren't competent?"

Agrias opened both eyes. She seemed torn between anger and grief. "They were gifted. And devoted. And...unready."

"None of us were ready for this, Captain," Lavian said.

"No?" Agrias asked. "Then why are we alive, when they..."

"They were your comrades," Beowulf said. "They knew the risks."

Agrias shook her head. "They were under my command."

A memory tickled in the back of Malak's mind. He remembered a different conversation—the deck of the Syldra rolling beneath his feet, as Captain Faris had spoken of burdens and responsibilities.

"It's different," Malak agreed. "She's not our leader."

"Speak for yourselves," Lavian muttered.

Agrias smiled softly. "I always forget, Malak of Galthena. You were a commander, too."

Malak shrugged. "I can't blame you forgetting. We only faced each other the once. And it was mostly us trying to stay out of each other's ways."

"Did you get a chance to yell at Olan for that?" Rafa asked.

Malak frowned. "Now that you mention it...no."

She patted him on the shoulder. "We had other things on our minds."

Malak nodded, but he was still frowning. He had almost forgotten how they had found Olan spying on them: how they had chased him across the refugee camp, and how he had led them floundering into Ramza and his allies. Malak had been so terrified that his first command was about to end in disaster. That he was going to fail the Grand Duke.

"Oh, that's right," Lavian murmured. "Your friend...the Time Mage..."

"Clara," Malak and Rafa said together. Malak felt her name catch in his throat. He had loved all the Hand, but he and Clara had worked together so often, melding their magics to strengthen Malak's arts, to let his blood last longer. In the end, they had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams: they had combined his blood and her magic with a falcon so it could fly the hundreds of malms to Gariland while he could still see through its eyes. That was how this had all started—that falcon, melting as it flew, that had spied Ramza Beoulve coming to the Daravon Estate, and heard his name spoken from the lips of his friends.

He had been exhausted afterwards: he had been practically immobile for half a day, as the phantom sensations of the dying bird left him. But he had also been so proud of himself. And when he had presented his conclusions to the Grand Duke, he had received Barinten's approval, and support. In that moment, all the agony had been worth it.

The sense of pride had been founded on a lie. Barinten had wanted them only as far as he could use them. But there was truth woven in that lie. Learning how to push his powers to their limits, learning how Clara's powers could be woven with them, learning to imbue specific runes with her magic to release them in a more controlled fashion. He had learned how to strengthen his hold over his blood, how to feel it over greater and greater distances. It hurt, but most things worth doing did.

"It's easier in living things then in inanimate ones," Malak explained, in answer to Lavian's questions about his magic.

"But it can last longer in animate ones, can't it?" Lavian asked. "If you get the balance right."

"Not just balance." Malak sighed. "The swords were...trial and error. We never got it to work again. Not in the same way."

"It's interesting," Lavian mused. "All of you...the Hand, I mean...you're all...bloodline magics, aren't you?" Lavian studied her rune-etched quarterstaff. "I mean, there are some basic gravity magics and time magics you can learn to do, and I heard the Ydorans knew some spells that could mimic you-"

"And I think the Thundergod's like me," Rafa pointed out.

"Like you by way of me," Agrias said.

"And me," Melia put in.

"How many caveats do you need to add before you realize it's not the same?" Beowulf asked.

Agrias laughed. "A fair point."

"But if it looks like a chocobo, and cries like a chocobo..." Lavian muttered.

"It could be something pretending to be a chocobo?" Radia suggested.

They kept talking. Malak was only half-listening. He had finished his drink, and was still thinking of Clara, and Berkeley, and Clarice. Thinking of magic. Thinking of Barinten.

"Something on your mind, Mal?" Melia asked.

Malak shook his head "It's all so...complicated. I spent years training and learning and I...I thought I was ready for it, I really thought, but..."

He heard how young he sounded. He heard the alcohol in his voice. He flushed, and looked down again.

"No, you're right." Agrias was leaning back against the wall again, her arms folded, her eyes closed. "Every step of our journey has showed me how much wider and stranger the world is then I once imagined." She paused. "I...sometimes I wonder...if I was made captain of Ovelia's Lionesses...because of my ignorance."

"I think you have it backwards, Captain," Lavian said. "You insisted on staying on because of your ignorance."

Agrias laughed. "Yes. Perhaps so."

"But I know what you mean," Lavian continued. "The politics of it all never made much sense to me. But I thought magic did. But then we see what the Thundergod can do...what Clara and Clarice could do...what Rafa and Malak can do..." She shook her head. "We have seen so much...learned so much...learned how much we don't know, too." She smiled sadly. "It's...not always a bad thing. But it's...big."

Malak nodded. His cheeks felt very hot. So did the thoughts in his head. Everything was buzzing, from his skin to the blood in his veins. It was not entirely unpleasant.

"Magic is different," Malak agreed. "People are different. And then there's...dragons. And Workers. And Lucavi. And...and what I saw, when I..."

He trailed off again. Someone pressed a glass of tepid water into his hands. He drank it gratefully.

"Your friends are there?" Radia asked. "You heard them?"

Malak nodded. He couldn't bring himself to look at anyone else in the room. There were tears burning in his eyes, and he didn't want to cry in front of anyone else. He was Captain of the Hand. He had to be in command.

"So mine are, too," Radia said. "Fang. Arlette. Miluda. Every Valkyrie. Every member of the Corps..."

"Every dead Templar," Melia murmured.

"Katherine, and Ysabel." Agrias' voice was frighteningly raw again.

"Everyone who dies in Ivalice," Rafa said.

Silence in the room again.

"I can't make it okay."

Malak looked up. Radia was staring at Beowulf again. "What you did," she continued. "I can't...make it okay that you...that you killed people I..."

Beowulf had locked his blue eyes with her green. He set his drink down without speaking.

"But what we're fighting against...what we're fighting for...it's bigger than that." Radia drew a shuddering breath. "I appreciate you...saying you're sorry. But I can't make it okay...and I don't want to." She took another drink. "But it doesn't have to be. Not for us to...keep fighting."

Wordlessly, Rafa slipped off her barstool, and strolled back to the books she'd been looking at earlier. Wordlessly, Malak slipped off his barstool, and followed her. When he reached the shelf, he didn't try to talk her—he just studied the dusty volumes. Here, a history of Ivalice after the Fall; here, a biography of Rufus Goltanna; here, a collection of childrens' tales from Lesalia.

He read the spines, and flipped absently through dusty tomes, and waited.

"I miss them." Rafa's voice was low, and just as raw as Agrias' had been.

Malak nodded. "So do I."

"I was...I was so..." Her voice trembled. "After...after the rooftop...Barinten was gone, and you were back, and I was...even with the bullet in me, I was so...I was so happy." Her voice cracked on the last word. "I...I didn't even want to think about..."

Malak nodded again, slowly. All his own fond memories—of the late-night vigils only he and Clarice kept, of the spells and research he'd labored at with Clara, of jokes and banter with Berkeley...Rafa must have her own. Her own dear memories, of their departed friends. All lost, in the same hell he'd found himself in, before her wish had pulled him back.

"I think Berk knew," Malak said. "That you...you'd really...left us. They tried to...I don't know. To warn me. About how...difficult it is, to live a lie."

Rafa nodded. She was still staring determinedly at the bookshelf. "They would," she said. "They always...always saw...a lot more then..." She closed her eyes. "Sometimes I hated that."

Malak was quiet for a moment. "The same way you hated me?"

Rafa nodded—a sharp, sudden gesture, jerking her head down just a fraction of an ilm. "You should have..."

"I know."

Rafa shook her head, just as sharply as before. "No. You shouldn't have. That was how...he worked. We were...all his victims." Her voice shook. "I know that. I know it's not fair. But I don't...believe it."

"I should have known," Malak whispered.

"How could you?" she asked. "He wove his lies so carefully. He did it intentionally. He wanted us isolated from each other. He wanted...he wanted to make sure..."

"I should have," Malak said again.

"Stop-"

"Raf." He did not reach out to touch her. He did not have the right. "You were my sister long before he was our..."

Our what, Malak? Our father? Our master?

"You're my sister," he said again, though his throat was thick with guilt and grief and loss. "And I...I didn't listen to you. Not until..."

Not until the monster in front of him was revealed for all to see. Not until you could cling to denial no longer. And the cost of your denial was your sister's safety, and your friends lives, and very nearly your life.

I should have died with them.

They didn't want you to.

So what?

"I miss them," Rafa whispered. "Clara. Clarice. Berk. But I'm...I'm so happy we're...free."

Malak looked back at her. Rafa was looking over her shoulder, to the others ringed around the bar. "The things we've done...the monsters we've fought...the battles we've won..." Finally, she looked at Malak. Her cheeks were wet. Her eyes glistened. "We did that because we chose to, Mal. We used our powers the way we wanted to...we did something worth doing. There are people alive, in this room, because of us." She shook her head fiercely. "And they aren't the only ones."

Again, that terrible battle at Bethla Garrison. Again, that terrible risk—hazarding themselves against armies, clinging to a dragon's scaly leg as the wind howled past them. Again, that terrible joy: that he had helped to spare others the fate his friends suffered, in that peculiar hell. The fate he himself had so narrowly been spared.

"She's right," Radia called.

Rafa flushed. "You were listening?"

"We were trying not to," Melia said. "But you got pretty loud towards the end." She smiled at Rafa.

"It's why we're here," Radia added. "Why we're all here. However we hurt each other." She looked at Beowulf. "What we're fighting for is...bigger than all of that."

Melia nodded. Her smile was gone already. "No more Tetas. No more Miludas. No more Izludes."

"No more Berkeleys, or Claras, or Clarices," Agrias growled.

"No more Katherines," Lavian said softly. "No more Ysabels."

"No more Justinas," Beowulf said, and took a swig of his drink. "No more Arlettes."

Malak looked at them for a moment. He tried to speak, felt the name catch in his throat. He swallowed, and tried again: "No more Izludes."

Melia's lips trembled, somewhere between a smile and a sob.

There were tears in his eyes now. He wiped them away absently, and headed back for the bar. Rafa was close behind him: he reached over, and wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her close for a moment.

And in the distance, there was thunder.

They reacted like startled deer: every head perked up, turned towards the clouded window with its dusty curtain. Melia had already crossed the room, and pulled the curtain back. Even through the fogged glass, they could see the blue skies beyond.

Another distant boom, so faint it was merely an echo. Beowulf shut his eyes firmly, cocked his head as he listened. His face went pale before his eyes opened. "I think it's coming from the Manor."

There was the briefest moment of frozen shock. Then they were bursting into motion, grabbing for weapons and armor and supplies, hurrying for the door and careless of who might see them running. Because there were sounds of battle from the Beoulve Manor, and none of them doubted why.

Racing into danger again. Racing into danger for the sake of a friend. Racing into danger, to make sure they would lose no one else.