(Sorry for the delay again. I thought I was nearly done with this chapter. Instead, I seem to have written the longest chapter in the story so far.
That marks the end of Part 6. The final part of the Zodiac Brave Story begins 8/21/24)
Chapter 159: Brave Story
Saint Above.
How often had he said it, over the years? Where had he heard it first? His father? One of the servants?
(Old, again: his mind drifted over too many memories. Too long since he'd been to the Orlandeau Estate: he'd given the title to Count Cavour, a young noble whose father had won his title in the War, and who was squandering his wealth and power on all the trappings of higher nobility. But he had never cared for the old Estate: it had never felt like home to him, even as a young man. When the Count had come with an offer, he had asked Olan if he cared if they sold it. And Olan had laughed, because doing was more important than being, and they had more important things to do).
It took effort to bring himself back to the present. It took effort to keep thinking of the here-and-now, and the terrible threats before them. The Lucavi were real: he believed Ramza, especially after Igros. And there was something even more monstrous than the Lucavi. A monster that supped on all of Ivalice's dead. A monster that had once been the Saint Above.
Cidolfas Orlandeau had never been a pious man. He believed in God—he believed in a power beyond man, who helped shape their innate sense of justice and rightness about the world. But he was never quite sure what form that God took. He had seen too many kinds of goodness in the world, and too many kinds of evil.
But still...he had thought there was truth in the Church's teachings, even if was sometimes clouded. He had thought that the Saint had truly been a righteous man, who had suffered as so many righteous men had suffered. Reading the Germonique Scriptures had not much tarnished that belief. Reading the message buried beneath...
So Cid sat in the training room beneath the Daravon Estate, and thought about the world, and thought about God, and the Saint, and what it meant to be righteous. He let his mind drift, just a little—he thought of his father, his mother, and Olan, and Balbanes, and Reddas Durai. But always, he brought himself to the present. To the Saint who was not a Saint. To the quest he had joined, to stop him.
Footsteps on the stairs. He opened his eyes, and looked towards the source.
"You're alright?" Beowulf asked, as the wind whispered through the branches of the tree above them.
"Better than alright." He felt her smile against the crook of his neck. "Mustadio and Alicia helped a lot. Helped me heal up. Helped me study the Stones. Helped me study myself." She shifted, lifted herself away from and gently led him by the chin to look at her. "The Stones are a tool. A lever. They help me move something heavy. But you don't always need a lever to move something heavy. You can do it yourself, if you work at it. And if you're careful."
"And you will be careful."
She arched her high eyebrows. "As careful as you."
He laughed, and kissed her forehead. "I deserve that."
A crack, deep across his heart. She saw the pain in his eyes, and she ran her other hand through his hair. "What could you have done?"
"More," Beowulf said. "I could have done more."
Could have insisted on going with Ramza, so he didn't have to face his brother alone. Could have been stronger, sharper, faster, so he reached Riovanes in time to save Alma. Could have cut down the Cardinal in the old complex beneath Goland, so Reis never had to suffer as she'd suffered. Could have been less arrogant, less full of himself, and stood by Ramza and Delita' side, and helped them save Teta. Could have found a way to fight without killing, as Ramza had so many years ago, and saved so many people through the years.
It had not been a bad life. He had done his best. But it simply had not been enough. He could have done better. He could have done more.
Reis did not bother arguing with him. Instead, she pulled him back down to the crook of her neck. From their place beneath the thick-trunked tree where they had shared their first kiss, they looked out over the overgrown land on which his father's moldering manor rested. Beneath them stretched the slope where he'd once faced her with his training swords in hand. She had wielded magic like no one he had ever seen: she had been fierce, and proud, and unyielding. He had never bested her, not once, in all the years they'd been together. But he'd gotten a little closer, each time he fought.
He could have done better. He could have done more. But he could do nothing about the past. All he could do lay in the future. He would do better. He would do more.
"Let's go check with Besrodio," he said.
It was Beowulf, of course—he should not have been surprised. If the revelations about the Saint had shaken him, he had not shown it. He maintained his careless, easy-going demeanor—and his zeal and drive. Of the little company Ramza had put together, Beowulf reminded Cid most of Balbanes in his youth. He had a confidence born, not of arrogance, but of determination. If he could not be equal to the challenges before him, he would make himself equal to them.
But the swords in his hands were different than the ones he'd fought with thus far.
"You're first?" Cid asked.
Beowulf flourished each sword. "Figured I'd use them to take you down a peg, old man."
Cid smiled, and drew his sword, and Beowulf lunged at him.
From the beginning, Cid had been surprised at how quickly Beowulf responded to even Cid's fastest strikes. But something had changed: there was a new edge to his attack. Before, Cid had had little trouble avoiding his Silencing strikes: he could parry Beowulf's magical attacks as deftly as he could parry his physical. But somehow his Silencing strikes had been magnified: the speed, the strength, the pressure, all were more intense. Cid could not recover his balance.
They twisted apart, swords en guarde. Cid felt himself out of breath, and laughed in exhilaration. "What did you do?"
Beowulf twirled his blades, which gleamed somewhere between silver and gold. "Melted down my swords, and Alister's. Plus Melia was kind enough to lend me some of the Marquis' katana. And Ramza..."
"Justice and Service?" Cid asked.
Beowulf nodded. "Just a bit from each. Makes it easier for me to use my Silencing. And that's not all." He grinned rakishly at Cid. "I was thinking about what you said. About Balbanes. How he used the swords to wield Mage Knight powers differently than anyone else. One sword to create the magic, one to shape it. That's not so different from what a Silencer does. So..."
Now Cid understood, looking at Beowulf and the swords, remembering how it had felt. "One sword creates pressure. One sword finds the cracks. That's clever. Do they have names?"
Beowulf's grin widened. He twirled the broader, cleaver-like sword. "Earthbreaker." He twirled the thinner, foil-like one. "Skyscraper." His smile saddened a little bit. "When we go, Besrodio will make new Silencing blades, too. For...for an apprentice. If I ever take one."
"If you're half the teacher your father is, I fear that apprentice already." He pointed his sword. "Come, Beowulf Daravon. Show me what you can do."
Beowulf's grin turned rakish again, and he lunged at Cid.
"Again," Besrodio said
Malak nodded, and willed. The disparate shards in front of him rattled: some wavered across the table, and some hovered into the air. Fractured impressions reached his mind's eye, so it felt like he'd briefly opened and closed several eyes. The strain spread from his temples, cracks spreading across his forehead and reaching behind his eyes: he gasped, and relaxed his mind, and the metal stopped moving.
"Thank you," Besrodio said, picking out the shards that had wavered across the desk and setting them aside. "This helps?"
Malak nodded. "It's hard to form the connection without something to focus on."
"Even when someone drinks your blood?"
"I think that's them...forming the connection?" Malak shrugged. "Like...it's easier to hold someone's hand, if you grab theirs? But you can still grab onto someone's hand, when they grab yours?"
Besrodio nodded. "Sensible." He rolled one of the shards of metal between his fingers. "I wonder what changes how it responds to your will? What combination of magic, material, rune, will..." He set the shard back down. "How is it, trying to move multiple objects at once?"
"Hard," Malak said. "But I...I'm used to moving two. I figure...I can learn to use more. I've learned before."
Besrodio nodded again. "Just be careful. There are limits to what even the most talented people can do." He paused, then looked back at Malak. "What made you change your mind?"
Malak shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"I believe it does. Why we do something matters just as much as how we do it. Intention always effects outcome."
Malak said nothing. He stared at the pile of shards in front of him. "I spoke with your son."
"Oh?"
Malak nodded, and looked to Mustadio's section of the workshop. It was clean now—no papers, no gun parts. His work was done. "He was...making his guns."
Besrodio smiled. "They are fine work, are they not? I helped with the design."
Malak nodded, but his neck ached in protest. Something of his feeling must have shown on his face: Besrodio's smile faded. "Are you alright?"
Malak could not bring himself to nod again. "The Grand Duke...one of those guns was his." He paused. "One of those guns killed me."
Killed you, as the blinders were torn from your eyes. Killed you, and showed you a world beyond death so much worse than you'd imagined. And as bad as that Hell had been, it was even worse than he'd understood. That Hell would be incarnated in a single person. Power on a scale even the Grand Duke had never dreamed of.
"Three guns," Malak continued. "The one he made...the one that killed me...the one that belonged to his friend."
"Barich," Besrodio whispered, his face drawn.
Barich Fendsor. The connection between him and Mustadio had been so thin and frayed, when Mustadio had drank his blood that night in the Wastes. But dim thoughts had reached Malak, even in his wretched state. Thougths of hate, and resentment, and hurt. Thoughts of love, and admiration.
"He pushed Mustadio out of the way, you know," Malak said. "Saved his life."
Besrodio was quiet for a moment. "He did not tell me that."
Neither of them spoke for a little while.
"I...I was raised to be a weapon," Malak said. "Even before...before I understood what the Grand Duke was...I knew what I was. His tool. His Hand. To do what he could not." So many horrors. Izlude, Rafa, Clarice, Clara, Berkeley...their memory hung heavy in Malak's head. But they were not his only victims.
"I saw your son making his guns," Malak said. "And I...I asked him about Barich's gun. The spell gun. I was looking at the gun that killed me, but I asked...how he could bring himself to take apart something that belonged to his friend."
"You cannot give meaning to the dead," Besrodio said. "You can only give meaning to yourself."
Malak's head jerked up as though he'd been struck. Besrodio's voice was deeper than Mustadio's, wearier and raspier. But the words were the same, and so was the tone. Besrodio smiled sadly at Malak. "He is my son, Malak of Galthena. Where do you think he learned it from?" The smile faded again. "A Machinist's lot in life is to dig among ruins, and find something worth salvaging. Sometimes, we do that by honoring the visions of those who came before us—rebuilding some work of theirs as they would have wanted it. More often, we cannot realize their vision. More often, we can only take the pieces we have, and build something new."
Malak nodded. "I know. I think...that's what I have to do, too." He tapped the sword hanging at his side. "I won't abandon my past. But I can't cling to it, either."
Besordio's smile returned. "I'm glad to hear you say that. Because I have some ideas."
A faint buzzing in his ear. Cid held up a finger, forestalling any further attack from Beowulf. He focused on the buzzing, reached out with his magic-
-hear me, Cid?
"I hear you, Malak."
He felt rather than heard Malak's sigh of relief. Good. It's still working.
"If the sword worked so long, so should this."
Again, he somehow sensed Malak's rueful shrug. He chuckled: he liked Malak. In their brief interactions, he reminded him so much of how Olan had been at his age—solemn and serious beyond his years. He hoped, like Olan, that Malak would one day find his confidence and ease.
Everyone's starting to head down.
"I hear you."
The vibration slowly faded away. Idly, Cid tapped the little earring Besrodio had made. It was a clever piece of metalwork even outside of the magic imbued in it: a clasp around the upper ear that draped a flared metal stud into the ear canal proper, with a little screw on the side to tighten or loosed the clasp as needed. It was one of a handful Besrodio had made from the shards of Malak's sword.
And the magic itself...they'd tested it in a half-dozen places across the Daravon Estate. Each time, Malak's voice came through clearly. They could hear him, feel him. How far did the reach of such devices extend? Malak himself had indicated that, if someone drank his blood with the proper preparation, you could have an instantaneous conversation as far apart as Gallione and Fovoham.
The general in Cid marveled at such a device. Put such tools in the hands of Olan's spies and soldiers, and you could whisper the secrets of your enemies to your liege lord at the same time your agents in the field learned them. Nations could live or die by such a marvelous device.
And nations might live or die, based on just such a device, and what they learned. After all, Cid had read the Germonique Gospel, too.
"We won't be alone for long," Cid said.
"Then I'd best beat you before the rest get down here!"
Beowulf raised his swords again. Cid smiled, and raised his in turn.
It was a perfect day—clear blue skies, warm with the afterglow of summer, and a cool breeze murmuring with the coming autumn. Melia enjoyed the pleasant weather, even as her heart churned. She had learned a long time ago that no soul storm ever made itself felt in the world outside yourself. No grief for dead brothers or mothers would cloud the sky, to match your heart. So she had learned to enjoy that fact. The world was more than one self. You could take pleasure in a golden sun and a cloudless sky, even as your heart broke.
Her father was a monster, in service to greater monsters. That hurt, but she could live with it: she had always some sense of what her father was capable of, no matter how well he hid it. But she had always comforted herself with the cause he was a part of. The cause she and Izlude shared.
The world was wrong—warped and twisted by men's ignorance and greed. The teachings of the Saint promised mankind a better way, if they could but learn his Word, and understand it. The world could be better. She could be better. Her father could be better.
Was it all lies?
"Is he done yet?" Radia asked.
Melia lowered her gaze from the azure skies. Radia was approaching her across the short stretch of lawn that led from the kitchens to the stables Besrodio had turned into his workshop.
"Finishing touches, he said." She shrugged. "They were testing Malak's earrings first."
"Will anyone think it's weird if you wear one into Mullonde?"
Melia almost laughed. "If Zalmour hasn't won them over, I think an earring will be the least of my troubles."
That should scare her more—the thought of marching into Mullonde, only to meet a heretic's welcome. But of the many things that scared her at that moment, the thought of going to Mullonde did anything but. The thought of going back to Mullonde—to the Cathedral City, labyrinthine and magnificent—seemed the only bright spot on her horizon. The only path that promised any kind of closure. Any kind of hope.
"How are you?" Radia asked. Her smile was a little crooked—she seemed to know how ridiculous the question was.
"How can I be?" Melia asked. She studied Radia for a moment. "Though...I suppose you'd know what I'm about to do, better than most."
Radia shrugged. "I know about having to go up against your asshole father," she agreed, and this time Melia did laugh. Radia's smile turned a little more earnest. "And I guess I know what it's like, to have your faith shaken." She shrugged. "Not the same faith, but...seeing what happened to the Valkyries...to the Corps..."
Melia nodded. Radia took a seat beside her. For a little while, they stared up into the blue sky, and said nothing.
"Do you believe in God?" Melia asked.
Radia thought for a moment. "I don't...know. Not...the Church's God, anyways. But...some kinda...something. Something that...guides us...protects us...maybe. I've...I've thought I felt it...them...whatever it is. Thought I felt it...the day I heard about the Corps. And Miluda."
"Why?" Melia asked.
Radia shrugged again. "They seemed like...like what I'd been dreaming, since I was a kid. People...better than my Dad. Who fought for a reason. And then I heard about the Valkyries...it seemed too perfect."
"Perfect?" Melia glanced over at Radia.
Radia smile sheepishly. "Vampire Knights don't have much tradition. Not like the Mage Knights, not like the Swordbreakers. But the swords that let you use the Draining Blade...they have names. Usually something to do with death, or the afterlife. My Dad's sword comes from the same old Gallione religions as the Valkyries. The Valkyries were messengers of death, who brought worthy souls to the afterlife. And my Dad's sword was...was named after the same place." She leaned her head back against the wall. "Valhalla."
That startled another laugh out of Melia. "You're kidding."
Radia glanced at her in turn. "No. Why?"
"My father's...the sword that's given to each Knight-Commander. It comes from the same religion."
It was Radia's turn to look surprised. "You're kidding."
Melia shook her head. "The judgment that would have destroyed all their gods. Ragnarok."
Radia was quiet for a moment. "I'm surprised they didn't change the name."
"You don't know much about the Church's doctrine, do you?"
"I am a wanted heretic."
Melia chuckled again. "The Church doesn't believe that the Saint discovered every truth. They think many of the other faiths of the world had some truth to them. Even the Pharists. The Saint represents the purification of those faiths. The distillation of their truths to their finest form. But that doesn't mean there's no truth to the others. Steel ore is still steel."
Radia was quiet for a moment. "And if you dare to claim that there's more truth to the old faiths than there is to the Saint's?"
Melia didn't bother answering. Radia was a wanted heretic among wanted heretics. All of them scorned by the Church and the demons in their midst, because they'd stumbled on dangerous truths.
"The sword Besrodio is working on," Melia said. "My father gave it to me. Claimed it belonged to my brother."
"Izlude?"
Melia shook her head. "Quan."
"Who..." Radia trailed off. "I didn't know you'd lost another brother."
Melia nodded. "And Mother, too." She tried to shrug nonchalantly, and couldn't quite manage it. "I don't...really remember them." Just shadows. The warmth of her mother's touch. Her brother's voice, as deep as her father's and so much more buoyant. The world had been dimmer, ever since their loss. Only their cold and distant father remained.
"He gave me the sword," Melia said. "And he gave me the Stone. And he set me after you." She shook her head. "I think...I think he wanted me to...turn into something like him." She was quiet for a moment. "I don't think the sword was really Quan's. I think that was a lie. To set me up. To make me break, so I could..."
What did that mean, to the demon who dwelled within her father's skin? So quick to set Stones in her and Izlude's hands? Some part of her (and she hated that part, she had spent years smothering and drowning that part, but it persisted, whispering, whimpering) hoped that it was a sign he still loved them. That he wanted them to join him, become as he was.
And if he killed Izlude?
"Has it all been lies?" Melia asked. "My father...my sword...my Church?"
There was weakness in his voice. She hated that. She needed to be s
"So what if it is?"
Melia blinked out of her reverie, locked eyes with Radia. Radia's face was pale, but her eyes were set. There was a hint of a sad smile about her lips. "The Braves may be lies. The Church may be lies. What your father told you about your sword. What my father told me about mine." She exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "I'll give that cynical fucker this: I thought he was overselling how bad the world is. I think he might have been underselling it."
Again, Melia thought of her own father—craggy, impassive, unreachable. She had thought she'd glimpsed something of the man beneath, when he'd given her a sword and a Stone. Had that been a lie, too?
"But we keep going," Radia said. "As long as we're still standing, we just...keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep trying to find some meaning." She looked back at the Daravon Estate. "That's why I saved Ramza, you know. Felt like if I didn't...everything that happened, to us, and the Corps, and the Valkyries, and Teta...if I could just save one person..."
"Did it work?" Melia asked.
"Led me here."
"That's not really an answer."
Radia smiled in earnest. "No. I guess it's not." She looked back at Melia. "But I saved a Princess. Fought with the Lionesses. Fought demons. Learned more about the world than I ever would have, if I hadn't. I don't know if it was worth...everything. But it's not nothing." She paused, and her smile faded. She looked more serious than Melia had ever seen her. "And you're one of us now. We're with you."
Melia's eyes were burning. She had been thinking of the dead she had known in her life—the dead of the Church, the dead in her family. She was tired, and scared, and her world felt upended. The Saint she'd worshiped all her life was a monster even more terrible than the Marquis had been, as he melted dancing corpses into a sea of rotting flesh to swallow her.
But there was something else, too. In the absent care of her father, surrounded by men and women always busy on one mission or another, Melia had had to be strong, and to take care of herself, and to take care of Izlude. She had lived a solitary existence, with a few strong connections—Izlude and a handful of Templars—to ground herself. She had not minded that life, as long as Izlude was alive to share it.
But as precarious and fragile as she felt at this moment, she was also less alone than she ever had been. Because she was surrounded by people who cared about her, who she could count on as they counted on her.
So she would go back to Mullonde, and plead with the Confessor who had treated her so kindly, and try to help mend this broken world a little world. And when she went, she wouldn't go alone.
When Meliadoul Tengille and Rafa of Galthena entered the training room, Beowulf was sitting against one wall, panting, while Cid stood nearby, sipping at water and trying to catch his breath. They raised their hands in greeting. Rafa and Melia nodded back, then headed to the training room floor—towards one of the tiles that dampened magic.
"Ready?" Melia asked. Rafa nodded, and Melia drew her sword.
The faded blue blade was faded no more—its blue had brightened to be nearly crystalline in its azure clarity. Part of that was a trick on the eyes played by shimmering runes and the patches and threads of silver and gold woven through its length. The bulk of the Marquis' long katana had been used to improve Melia's sword, so it was longer, sharper, and brighter. Opposite her, Rafa seemed much the same—her loose white garb was threaded with occasional flashes of silver.
They hung poised for a moment—Melia with her blade drawn, flat against her hand, and Rafa in a martial stance, palms braced at chest and crotch. Slowly, they shifted towards each other—Melia raised her blade as though about to bring it down in a mighty cut, and Rafa raised her own hand in turn, as thought to block the blade. But their motions were painfully slow, painfully precise: as though time had slowed for them.
When hand met blade, there was a shimmer between the two, as of heat radiating off of stone. As the moments passed, the shimmer expanded around them, flashed with sparks of lights. On a fundamental level, Cid felt a great vibration, as though of thunder so distant and immense that it could not be heard but only felt in the vibrations it left in its wake. With every moment, the feeling intensified, as the flashes of light between Melia and Rafa grew brighter and fiercer.
They broke apart all at once, panting. Rafa massaged her hand: Melia brushed sweat from her brow.
"An interesting exercise," Cid observed.
Melia smiled. "I took your words to heart." She was slightly out of breath. "Gotta build my endurance."
"And I can try to better focus my powers, in turn," Rafa added, shaking out her hands and dancing from foot to foot. "Ready?"
Melia nodded, and they repeated the motion—this time, with Rafa using the opposite hand. This time, Cid watched Melia's sword more closely. He had sparred with Melia only once since it had been reforged, but that was enough to get a sense of just how dangerous it was. Amplified by the Marquis' long katana and pieces of her brother's gauntlets, it had acquired such shattering power that Cid had struggled to keep it from cracking Excaligard.
They shifted several positions, trying different combinations of blocks, parries, kicks, punches, palm strikes. Always the same painstaking slowness in their movements, to avoid hurting each other. Always the sense of rumbling as they made contact, increasing with every moment. Beowulf and Cid watched them in fascination.
They were both drenched with sweat when they came to drink water.
"Could we try it?" Beowulf asked.
Rafa shrugged. "Maybe in a bit."
"Have you settled on a name yet?" Cid asked.
Melia paused. "I have one in mind." She looked embarrassed. "It's a little...childish."
"Naming a weapon is always childish," Cid said. "Because it is fundamental."
Melia cocked her head. "Huh?"
"It is something essential to a person. Something even children do. But then, is naming a child any different?"
Melia smiled, and patted her sheathed sword. "It's from a game Izlude and I played as children. Dreaming of the knights we would become." Her grey eyes went distant with memory. "He always wanted to call his...Lionheart."
Cid chuckled. "I see what you mean by childish. But I still think it is a fine name."
"You made me armor?" Radia asked.
"We...modified you armor," Lavian said. "It's not quite as big a job as what we're doing for Ramza and Agrias."
"Though that's where Alicia got the idea," Reis put in. She was sipping water as a fresh blood rune dried upon one of her chains. Her head was swimming with exertion. If she judged herself aright, she had one more left her...but only just.
"It was something I noticed when we fought your father," Alicia said. "He could heal himself with our magic in ways you and Ramza can't. And the difference was too profound to just be a matter of talent."
Radia arched her eyebrows. "So what is is the difference?"
"He almost always wore the same armor, didn't he?" Alicia tapped the slender book on the side of the table. "I think he'd had that armor modified."
"Modified how?"
"I didn't know," Alicia admitted. "So I went looking, and..."
"And I helped," Besrodio said softly. "Lucky for us, Bode has quite a collection of esoteric literature."
Bode? Reis cocked her head at Besrodio. Did he mean Master Daravon?
Besrodio flipped open the slender notebook. "Studies of different sword arts, old bits of Ydoran theory, scraps of legend...the legends ended up being the key." He flipped to a different page. "Did you ever hear of Black Sidurgu?"
Radia nodded. "The Heretic Vampire Knight. Terrorized the Glabados Church a century after the Fall. Knight-Commander Thordan led forty Swordbreakers to kill him. He killed every one."
"So the legends say," Besrodio said. "Every wound he took, he healed by killing the man who wounded him, drinking in his life. And for every sword his foes shattered, he plucked a fresh one from the fallen, and carried on." He flipped to another page. "What about Golbez the Shadow?"
"The man who killed the Bloody Baron Heidegger," Radia answered. She looked more child-like than Reis had ever seen her, her eyes sparkling. "Spent 15 years training to avenge the death of his family at the Baron's hand. Stole into Castle Igros on the Baron's birthday, and killed every man inside."
"A very interesting story," Besrodio agreed. "They say he used his Draining Blade to mimic the invisibility spells that Alicia and Lavian use. Killed his targets before they even knew he was there. All without using a sword." He paused. "Notice the common element?"
Radia nodded. "They could use the Draining Blade so well without a Vampire Knight's sword."
"It seemed to gel with Alicia's theory. And Bode had another piece of information, more concrete. There was a small unit of Ordallian Vampire Knights during the early days of the war. The last of them died during the offensive that drove our armies from their lands. Tynar's Red Blades."
Radia blinked, and glanced down at the sword in front of her. "Like mine?"
"Yours has more history, I think. A proper Ydoran sword. May have belonged to Tynar himself. The Vampire Knight who trained your father killed him many years ago."
Radia ran her hand along the sheathe.
"Fray fought more like your father," Besrodio continued. "And Black Sidurgu." He paused. "They called him that because of his armor, you know. The same as Golbez. And Tynar's Red Blades all wore special armor, too. They would drink the magic of their enemies, and feed it to their mages. That's how they started the offensive that pushed us out: with spells mighty enough to dwarf even the magic of old Elidibus." He smiled. "Alicia thought it sounded a bit like you. How you steal the magic from your enemies from afar, or feed your own strength to her and Lavian in times of need. A bit different from your father, eh?"
Radia nodded. Her eyes were still fixed on the sword. The childlike wonder was gone from her eyes. Now she was solemn, and looked far older than her 21 years.
"Alicia, Reis, and I started the initial work," Besrodio said. "But we needed everyone back to finish."
"Needed their blood," Reis said.
Radia's head snapped towards her. "What?"
Reis dangled one of her bracelets on her index finger. "Blood's one of the oldest magical enhancements for a reason. Your own blood always works better than others. But for the kind of work we were doing..."
"This'll let you feed us power at a lower cost," Alicia said. "And let us feed you power, too."
"Learned quite a lot from the work we have done here," Besrodio said. "Tynar called this kind of enhancement, "Tynar's Rouge." It has a ring, I admit—and the Ordallian tongue has a lovely resonance to it...I was thinking of calling yours, 'Radia's Rouge'."
Radia said nothing for a long time. Her face settled—no longer old with weariness, so longer young with excitement. She looked like herself—young, yes, but poised, as well, a veteran with experience that was only amplified by the faint sparkle of childish eagerness in her eyes.
Young. Reis kept using that word, even though she was only a little older than Radia. Not that you would know it to look at them—with the ways her time as a dragon had aged her. She didn't mind, exactly—she still cut a striking figure, and she was even stronger now that she had a sense of herself and the dragon within her. But it was strange, to be able to see the wear on her face. To see how the cost she'd paid, for surviving what Bremondt had done to her.
Reis closed her eyes, against the old and ragged hurt. She had trusted Bremondt. He had cared for her, taught her, supported her. She had never imagined the monster that lurked beneath his face. She had never imagined the things he would do, to her and to the people she loved, to get what he wanted. To bind her, body and soul, to him.
She did not mind the wear on her face. Sometimes, at the edge of her strength, she minded the wear on her heart, and on her soul. Sometimes, she badly wanted time to breathe, and rest, and stop fighting.
But she had told Ramza why she couldn't. What had almost happened to her was happening to so many others. There was Alma, held in captivity by the Lucavi for purposes unknown. And there was the hell both Malak and Germonique described. A sickening maelstrom of dead souls, caught in thrall to the horrible purpose of the Ydorans, bound in service to Saint Ajora.
She had been saved from just such a hell. No matter how tired she was, she had to keep fighting. Had to save as many other souls as she could. That was what power like hers was for. She had believed Bremondt thought as she did. So she would be what Bremondt was supposed to be.
She took a deep breath, summoned a phantom claw to the tip of her finger, and cut open a fresh wound. Time to leave more runes. Time to gather more strength. Time to make herself ready for the fight to come, and to save as many souls as she could.
More noise on the stairs. Radia, Alicia, Lavian, and Malak descended together. Malak looked paler than Cid liked—pushing himself too hard, in all likelihood. But Cid knew from experience how hard it was to talk the young out of such exertion. He'd been like that himself.
Wordlessly, he crossed to Malak with a glass of water. Wordlessly, Malak took it. They leaned against a wall, and watched as Alicia, Lavian, and Radia arrayed themselves on separate tiles. The head of Lavian's staff now held the slightly-thinner curve of Perseus, angled downwards, cunningly fitted together so it appeared all of one piece. Alicia, too, now held a staff—the scepter fitted into a larger metal piece fair gleaming with runes. Radia held her blood-red sword in her hand, and her mesh of leather and armor was streamlined, woven together with threads of red a little darker than her scarlet sword.
"Alright," Radia said. "Let's give this a try."
No sooner had she spoken then Alicia stabbed her staff like a spear, fingers dancing along its length as fresh runes flashed in the depths of the gem on the head. Lightning speared off the gem: Radia slashed, and caught the bolt upon her sword. Lightning vanished, and Radia blurred to Lavian's side: power shimmered from her and into Lavian in one great wave.
Lavian raised one crescent edge of her staff, and slashed down to Radia: a burst of white force exploded outwards, sending Radia skimming backwards. This time, she slashed her sword—not at Lavian, but at Alica, and the shimmering energy from her sword flowed beneath Alicia's skin.
That was how they practiced—flowing between magic attack and defense, Radia stealing magic and giving it, up close and from afar. Lavian fought far more offensively than Cid had seen in the short time he'd known her—with blasts of pure force and shaped impacts of golden light, and the occasional offensive spell. Alicia's spells were different less in style and more in volume and variability: lightning, wind, fire, ice, water, water crackling with lightning, walls of steam in waves of wind, fire crackling with burst of lightning. And Radia danced between them all, stealing, feeding, cutting, turning, whirling, swirling, thriving.
After a few minutes, they were all pale and panting, Lavian and Alicia leaning on their staffs, Radia swaying on her feet. And all three of them were smiling, their eyes glowing with elation.
"Very well done!" Agrias called.
The Lionesses turned smartly, as though sloughing off the weight of their tiredness. Agrias Oaks had slipped down the stairs without anyone noticing, with Mustadio and Reis just a step behind her. She was resplendent: her blue armor had been reconstructed with intricate patterns of runed scales united by threads of gold and silver, so she shimmered with every step like sunlight gleaming off a slow-flowing creek. Her hair was coiffed and coiled, Save The Queen sheathed at her side. She looked as though she had stepped out of a painting and into reality.
Silence in the room. Everyone stared at her.
"Captain..." Alicia shook her head.
"You look amazing," Radia said, grinning.
"Looks mean nothing," Agrias said, drawing her sword. "Let us see how it performs."
She broke into a sprint, sword gleaming. Radia laughed, and rushed out to meet her.
It was not just Agrias' sword that glowed in the interchange that followed—her armor glowed, too, flashing with white-and-silver fire. She took a blast from Lavian's staff as though it were a gust of strong wind, braced herself then burst through it in a shimmer of argent flame. When Alicia hurled a lightning bolt at her, it splashed harmlessly against her gleaming back, in eddies of white sparks, throwing little bolts around her.
Then Radia crashed against her, and the battle was truly joined.
Faster, faster, faster—with every strike, Agrias and Radia accelerated, until they were moving almost too fast for Cid to follow. Then Radia lunged backwards, her sword thrust up into the air. "Alicia! Lavian!"
The mages hurled power at the sword: the power swirled down into the blade, into Radia, and when Radia blurred back towards Agrias Cid could not track the movement. But Agrias met her charge head on: the clash of their blades shuddered against his senses.
Then it became play—Agrias, Alicia, Lavian, and Radia trading who was against who, Radia alternatively feeding and stealing strength from her mock-allies and mock enemies, Agrias shrugging off every challenge her foes could offer her. But with Radia feeding them strength, the contest lasted far longer than it should have, given its furious pace. When the finally stumbled to a stop, they were sweaty, and panting, and all of them were laughing.
"This is fine work, Mustadio," Agrias said, running her fingers along the scales.
"It is as much theirs as mine," Mustadio said, nodding to Reis, Alicia, and Lavian. "They enchanted the runes that empower you."
"Don't sell yourself short," Reis laughed. "It's your design. We just helped realize it."
"It...feeds off the Bursting Blade?" Cid asked.
Mustadio nodded. "There is no perfectly efficient way to shape one's own magic into spells. Many of the best techniques feed of ambient magic to strengthen the power of a given object or a given wielder. With the Minerva, we take advantage of the immense power realized through the Bursting Blade to also provide Agrias protection." He smiled. "Her sword becomes her shield."
"Minerva?" Alicia repeated.
Mustadio's smile turned embarrassed. "I...yes. A pagan goddess of war and wisdom." He cleared he throat. "I thought it was a worthy name for her armor."
Agrias smiled at him. It was a softer smile than Cid had ever seen on her face. "Thank you, Mustadio."
"He's here!" Beowulf shouted.
They looked together as one, as Ramza Beoulve entered the training room, just a step behind Daravon. And for a moment, Cid was not a man approaching 60, aching and weary from the effort of keeping up with these young, bright souls. For a moment, he was a lad of 17, newly tested in battle, shouting a greeting as Balbanes Beoulve rode up the hill.
The moment passed. The young man descending the stairs did look more like Balbanes than he had before, in part because he'd tied his shaggy blonde hair back in a loose ponytail. But the differences multiplied with every step he took. His hair was a darker blonde than his father's had been—Balbanes' had been so pale that it was unclear when it had started to silver—and where his father had always moved with the easy confidence of a man who belonged, Ramza moved gingerly, as though afraid he might break something if he stepped wrong.
His armor lacked Minerva's polished perfection. It's pieces were distinct, patchwork. He wore a mesh of grey plate and steel mail on his torso: his shoulders were studded with black-and-red spikes. The greaves he wore on his arms and legs were predominantly blue, but patched with other metal at seemingly random intervals, blue and gold and red and grey. Red leather and ruddy gold were his gloves, studded with odd bumps of metal and wood. Runes gleamed seemingly at random across his garb, giving the impression of stars twinkling in a twilight sky.
And yet there was something oddly powerful about the garb. The details reminded Cid somehow of the fortresses of Ivalice—of Bethla Garrison, Zeltennia Castle, the Lion's Den. You could see the scars and seams where these ancient, powerful places had been damaged and repaired. And seeing those old wounds did not diminish the imposing solidity of the whole. Watching Ramza move now, Cid felt strange power—not just in his armor, but in the young man. His diffident movements were as careful as a strong man playing with children, hesitant of any carelessness that might hurt them.
He reached the edge of the training room floor, and the room was still.
He reached the edge of the training room floor, and the room was still.
He had never worn armor like this before. As a cadet, his equipment had been an afterthought: as personal guard to the Special Limberry Liaison, they had been too busy to properly prepare their equipment: in his years wandering Ivalice, whether as a mercenary or as a heretic, he had only had time to cobble together the best gear he could.
Everything about this armor had been made for him. It fit him perfectly, so that moving in armor felt as light and easy as though he wearing a simply tunic and trousers. He had forgone his bow and arrow—he had only a simple sword, dagger, and throwing knife, each forged or honed for him from the bits and scraps of material they'd assembled from their travels and battles across Ivalice.
"You'll keep the Stones safe?" Ramza asked, glancing back at Daravon.
Daravon nodded. "Bes and I had already begun devising security measures before you all returned from Bethla Garrison. We figured there might be safekeeping ahead of us." He gestured. You have work to do, Ramza Beoulve."
Ramza nodded, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the training room floor proper. He crossed to one tile in particular—the one that weakened magic. He tapped it lightly with his foot, so it thrummed with sapping power, then turned to face his friends.
"How do we want to-" he started, too late: Beowulf was already hurtling past his father.
Beowulf, tall and rugged now, every ilm the hardened warrior he'd pretended to be during their time at the Academy. His gold-and-silver swords gleamed in the runelight of the training room, already ripping after Ramza. In this room, there might be no one better suited to beat Ramza—Beowulf had trained himself to turn every kind of magic against its wielder, and Ramza had learned nothing of the Mage Masher's art in the crises that had carried him and Beowulf from one side of Ivalice to the other.
"Think of magical armaments as focal lenses," Besrodio had explained, as they sat in the simmering heat of his workshop. "Different lenses of different sizes with different focuses for different purposes. Forging something for you is somewhat difficult, because the way you fight has you switching quickly between different styles, or combining them in unorthodox ways." He tapped one of the rough sketches in front of him. "Beowulf's swords serve a similar need. Silencer weapons have to be able to response to a wide variety of magics. They focus the wielder's senses, rather than amplifying their magic. If we use the metal from Beowulf's swords to bridge connections across your armor..."
Ramza could not match what Beowulf was doing. But then, he did not have to. He just had to fight well enough to counter it.
Beowulf charged him. Ramza drew his sword and met his charge.
He braced himself as though he were fighting Radia: keeping careful control of his magic, ready for the feeling of something pulling it away. But Beowulf's strikes were nothing like that: he felt as though his magic were being struck, numbing blows against invisible pressure points. Two strikes, and Ramza was already stumbling, ducking back from Beowulf's charge. So fast, and so strong. And besides, the Draining Blade couldn't help him here: Beowulf himself had told Ramza how little magic he had to take.
So he lunged forwards in turn, parried the cleaving blade and twisted around, hammering an elbow into Beowulf's stomach. In the same move, he grabbed one of Beowulf's arms, twisted and flung him to the ground. Beowulf somersaulted away: Ramza sprinted after him.
Whoosh.
Magic behind him, strong enough he could feel it even from this distance. He'd heard that sound before—the sound of phantom wings. He could almost see Reis as she closed in on him from the air, with the shadow of the dragon around her. She had always been impressive, but her mastery over her dragon and her prematurely lined face emphasized her gravity and poise: she was truly intimidating now. He admired her even more than he had when they had met so many years ago, as she recovered from terrible trials and rushed back in to danger to spare others her fate.
And she was closing in on side, as Ramza struggled to hold Beowulf.
No time now: Ramza dropped his own sword and lunged into a tackle, hands snapping for Beowulf's wrists. One thrashing, twisting spin, and Ramza kicked Beowulf away, with his stolen cleaving blade in one hand. He took his feet just as Reis landed in the magic-dampening square, the shadow of wings flexing around her: they flapped, and a burst of wind exploded towards him. Ramza slashed into it with the sword he'd stolen from Beowulf, slashed but reached with his magic, pulled just a little of it to feed into his feet, and burst through the wind even as he cut. He skidded to a halt with his blade an ilm from Reis' neck. She smiled at him.
Quick footsteps behind him: Ramza whirled away, met Beowulf's charge in a flurry of clanging blades. With only the piercing blade, it was easier to shrug off Beowulf's attacks: he felt himself wobbling, but his control over his magic was firm, and he focused only on the sword, only on his strength, only on the contest of blade against blade. He would never beat Beowulf like this—Beowulf had been the better swordsman even four years ago, and time had only sharpened him—but as Daravon had pointed out, Ramza had beaten many men who were better swordsman than he was.
One quick clash, piercing blade locked against cleaving, and Ramza fed another burst of stolen magic to his feet. Beowulf reacted just as quickly as Ramza had expected—with one quick flick of the piercing blade, Ramza's magic turned on itself, and instead of exploding forwards he staggered backwards, his legs half-asleep. Beowulf lunged after him-
Ramza allowed himself to fall. Ramza kicked out with his legs as he fell. Legs entangled, Beowulf fell towards him. And Ramza's arms were plenty strong enough: two quick, strong strikes to the wrist that held the piercing blade. One final twist, and Ramza pinned Beowulf beneath him, the stolen cutting blade braced against his friend's throat. The smile on Beowulf's face matched the smile on Reis'.
Ramza staggered to his feet, shaking arms and feet to get some feeling back in them. He helped Beowulf to his feet, returned the stolen cleaving blade, then went to pick up his fallen sword. "Now-" Ramza started.
A blade cut through the air—a katana without a wielder, flying as though wielded by a ghost. Ramza knocked the blade aside with thoughtless ease, sucked a little magic from it as he parried, watched it wobble through the air. He was already stepping back across the training floor, as Melia and Rafa came charging after him, with Malak behind them, eyes slitted with focus.
Rafa and Malak had changed more than almost anyone else in the short time he'd known them. Rafa had genuine poise now, genuine confidence—she fought with grace and clarity, rather than the mechanical precision of their first clash on the hill near Goland. And Malak had allowed himself to relax, to show a child's uncertainty. As a man who had spent his life uncertain, Ramza could sympathize with that. And as a man who had come to understand his uncertainty was not necessarily a weakness, he feared it. Malak would be careful. Malak would be cautious. And when the time came, Malak would strike with absolute certainty. Him and Rafa together were a deadly pair.
Rafa closed on him fast, crouched low, then leapt high—a great bounding leap, like a panther going for the kill. Melia was mere moments behind her, shining sword held ready to strike. They would hit him at almost the same moment—a girl who could knock aside cannon balls and a woman who could shatter any sword raised against her. His eyes flickered between them: he dropped his blade to the ground with a clattering clang. The metal-and-wood studded gloves he wore now were not nearly so tough on their own merits as Izlude's gauntlets had been. But then, they didn't need to be, if Besrodio was to be believed.
"Each piece builds on every other piece," Besrodio had explained. "The Silencing materials sharpen your senses, which let you feed on the magic enhancements we are modeling on Radia and Agrias' armor. You should be able to take in and put out power wherever you need, however you need to." He tapped the gloves on the drawing. "We will use the basic structure of Izlude's gauntlets, but amplify them with Perseus, with Justice, with Service. We will do the same with your boots. This power you have learned...you will be able to use it more quickly, more frequently, more precisely."
He took a step towards Melia, poured power into that step, and rocketed towards her. He fed power into his hands in the same moment. When he met her, it was not blade-against-glove, but power-against power: her Swordbreaker's magical edge against the bursting force he'd made for himself. He felt her magic fluxing and flexing against his, probing for weaknesses much like Beowulf's: he stole a little of that strength for himself, and found a rune for wind where his gloves met his greaves.
"The work we did on Alicia and Lavian's weapons helped us here," Besrodio said. "Building the runic lines to feed into the focuses atop each staff. Your spells will not be as strong as theirs...but then, they do not need to be, do they?"
A burst of wind, flinging Melia backwards just as Rafa hit the ground a moment behind him: he whirled away from Melia to face her. The silver threads on her clothes twisted sinuously, then snapped out like serpents. They were not threads, but chains—chains woven with links made from Malaks' melted sword, to entangle any foe she fought.
He could channel strength into his arms, to keep Rafa at bay. He could steal the magic from those chains. He wasn't sure he could do both. And Melia would be catching her footing shortly: would be ready to press her own attack.
So he sprinted towards Rafa, rolled and caught one of the chains around his hand, tried to yank Rafa off-balance. It didn't work—of course it didn't work, there was a living mind behind these chains, and Malak allowed the chain to be pulled along, adjusted it so it didn't pull his sister off-balance. But that was alright, it let Ramza steal a little more strength from him, poured strength into his legs to burst backwards as he let go of the chain. His eyes flickered, searching for-
There. Malak's sword, ghosting towards him. He snapped towards it, caught it by the hilt, heaved at Malak's magic: from the corner of his eye, he saw the boy wobble dangerously. He kept pulling until Malak sagged to the ground, cutting the connection as Cid caught him. But Ramza had stolen enough magic as he dodged backwards, and Rafa and Melia hurtled after him. The chains, now devoid of Malak's will, rattled noisily as Rafa rushed after him.
And just as Rafa crossed into the tile Ramza was standing in, he tapped his foot against the large rune at its heart—the one that magnified gravity.
She stumbled—just for a moment, just long enough for her magic to compensate, for her strength to return. The stumble was enough: Ramza dropped Malak's flying sword, channeled magic into his feet and burst towards her before she could catch her balance, grabbing not for her but for the chains that dangled limply across her form, pulling her off-balance, waiting for-
There: he felt her strength return, felt her magic assert itself against his, power enough to rip him limb from limb. Her moved with her, turned himself into a pivot, channeled the last of Malak's stolen magic into his limbs to add to the strength. She went flying, partially on his strength, partially on hers, and crashed against Melia: Ramza leapt into the air as his right hand fumbled for his sheathed dagger, twisted and kicked out with another burst of magic to spear down towards them. He landed beside them, his dagger an ilm from Melia's throat, his fist braced in the air above Rafa's.
They froze like that for a moment. Then Ramza slipped his dagger back into his sheathe, and offered them each a helping hand to their feet. Rafa shook her head in disbelief. "How did you-"
"Luck," Ramza said.
Melia snorted. "Some luck." She did not let go of Ramza's gloved hand, but squeezed it. "No wonder you've killed so many Lucavi."
Melia Tengille, who had so recently set out to kill him. Melia Tengille, who had fought to save his life when she had no reason to. Melia Tengille, who would risk terrible danger at his side, in the hope of stopping her father, and his plan to bring Ultima back to earth.
Ramza squeezed her hand in turn. Rafa and Melia headed to the edge of the floor. Ramza rolled his shoulders, started to look for his next challengers-
Stopped, as he saw he was surrounded.
In the frenzy of his contest with Melia, Rafa, and Malak, the Lionesses had closed around him. Radia and Agrias stood in tiles roughly equidistant from one another—one the sped healing for Radia, one that strengthened magical barriers for Agrias. Behind him, Alicia and Lavian stood in the same tile—one of the ones that empowered magic. Looking down at his own feet, Ramza saw no help: his tile was one that weakened magical barriers.
"Not very sporting," Ramza said softly.
Agrias raised her eyebrows. "Your performance so far tells us we should seize every advantage." Agrias, like Reis, had always been impressive. But where time had made Reis more majestic, it had made Agrias more dangerous. She seemed every bit as sharp and powerful as the legendary sword in her hand.
Ramza grimaced, his eyes flickering around the room. No help in any of his neighboring tiles, either: Malak's sword was two tiles away, in the high-gravity square. His own sword was even farther away, in the magic dampening square. Any direction he moved, Agrias and Radia would be able to close on him fast. And he felt the power fluxing around Lavian and Alicia, ready to strike him down.
He waited. So they did. A taut silence hung between them.
"Izlude's gauntlets form the base of your gloves, but we have further augmented them to suit your needs," Besrodio had told him. "Slivers of Perseus, of Justice, and of Service, in your hands and feet, and along your arms and legs. Power collects in the shoulders, torso, and thighs, through the same mechanisms we use for Radia and Agrias, then can flow any direction you need it to."
Silence still hung between them. The Lionesses would close on him the moment he made any move.
So Ramza moved.
He bounded towards Radia. From the corner of his eye, he saw Agrias begin charging him, armor shining just like her silver sword. Behind him, he felt power building in Agrias and Lavian, ready to strike him if he managed to get free of Agrias and Radia. Radia waited for him patiently, red sword held en guard, the blood-red lines of her armor gleaming dully in the runelight all around them. God, even charging her with desperate uncertainty, a part of him wanted her. Like Agrias, the years had only whetted her edge, whetted her danger. But it had also whetted her beauty. In her new armor, with her sword held so easily, so confidently, she looked so completely herself.
And she would defeat him, if he wasn't careful.
His right hand flicked towards his left wrist, to find the right rune to call up the right spell: Radia raised her sword in anticipation-
Less than a yalm from Radia, in striking distance of her sword, Ramza pushed off into the air with both feet in a burst of magic, spinning as he rose.
"NOW!" Agrias crowed, as Ramza spun around to face Alicia and Lavian. Lavian slashed with her crescent-headed staff; a ripple of force unfolded after him. Holding that staff, Lavian looked utterly in her element. Lavian had always been capable, and always limited in her capability by the difficulty of her art, the staggering difficulty of her chosen mission, and the insufficiency of her tools. In that staff, and in their current mission, all her frustrated power had the perfect outlet. Like Radia, she looked so completely herself. Like Radia, that made her terrifying.
Rather than try to drink that blast, Ramza rode it as he had once ridden Delita's Bursting Blade to strike a dragon, fed off just a little of it and diverted the rest, leaping through the air back across the room. He was upside down, and gave another kick of magic, spinning down to land in the magic-dampening square where his sword had fallen.
He snapped up the sword, just in time to catch a blast of hurricane wind from Alicia's staff. This one he drank in deep, counting on the magic-dampening tile to quell the storm enough for it to be bearable. She cursed, snapped her gem-headed staff around. It was a simple movement, but it belied how much stronger she was than when he had first met her at Orbonne Monastery over a year ago. There had been an element of pretension to Alicia back then, as she tried to show herself a worthy Lioness. That pretension was gone, melted into terrible competence. See the speed with which she moved now, changing her plans in the face of the unexpected, to fire a bolt of lightning towards Radia, who caught it at the tip of her red blade.
Radia would be even more dangerous now. Ramza had to end this fast.
Lavian realized the danger: just as Ramza kicked off the ground again, rocketing towards her and Alicia, she slashed her staff towards him again. Another ripple of force: Ramza struck out with his left hand, poured magic out to answer her. The air shuddered between them, a bone-shaking hum Ramza could feel in his teeth. Another kick, another burst: this time there was a pang in the old wound in Ramza's thigh. He stumbled when he landed in the magic-strengthening square, but caught his balance enough to press the flat of his sword against Lavian's shoulder, his wobbling fist held at Alicia's temple.
The Lionesses froze—the mages he'd stolen upon, and Agrias and Radia, who'd been racing towards him. Slowly, Ramza lowered fist and sword; slowly, Alicia and Lavian moved from the floor. Ramza, Radia, and Agrias waited until they'd stepped off the tiles-
Then Radia slashed.
Ramza snapped up his sword, braced his magic to resist hers, and realized his mistake too late; Radia had slashed, not at him, but at Agrias, a ripple of magic that flowed beneath her armor and her skin. A moment later, and it looked like Agrias ignited: her armor blazed as bright as her sword, and she rocketed towards Ramza. She wouldn't use the full strength of her Bursting Blade in here, but her blows would feel terribly weighty. Try to parry her blade, and she would knock it from his hand.
So Ramza's hand found the rune for wind.
His strength was not Alicia's strength—he had neither her talent nor her focus. But he was standing in the magic-enhancing square, and still had a little of the magic he'd stolen from Alicia and Lavian to fuel the spell: a howling burst of wind unfurled from Ramza's hand. He felt a hollow feeling in his chest—too much magic used too quickly, and he'd spent everything he'd stolen almost as soon as he'd taken it. Agrias was already slashing, her shining sword cleaving through his spell in a scattering of white sparks. But the force of it slowed her charge, if only for a moment.
He moved—not bursting, but running, taking advantage of her momentary slowness to sprint off at an angle. She recovered, whirled towards him. Radia was sprinting off at an angle that matched Ramza's, the two of them moving to pin him down. Agrias, empowered by Radia, was horribly fast—nearly as fast as Rafa. She would catch him first.
He gathered magic into his right arm, and turned to face her. As she closed the gap, he tapped his heel against the rune at the center of the square—the square he had started in, when the fight had begun. The rune that dampened magical barriers.
Agrias swung her sword. Ramza swung his, as though he intended to parry. But his grip was loose: he let it fly free as their blades made contact (and even that glancing impact was horrifyingly strong, he felt it reverberating through his palms and wrists, he fought to keep his magic steady). As his blade flew, he kept moving, turning, twisting. Agrias had expected more resistance: her blade cut through empty air as Ramza slipped below her guard. He struck out with both hands, throwing out a burst of magic from his right (and feeling a deep, dull ache from the newly-healed wound in his side and the newly-healed muscles in his arm) and stealing a little of her magic with his left. Her shining armor had dimmed a little, as she stepped into the square: he sapped its strength still further, so when his blow struck, she went flying backwards, straight towards Radia. Ramza poured her stolen magic into his feet and flew after her (a deeper pain in his thigh this time): they all crashed together in a rattling heap. But Ramza recovered first, kneeling between Agrias and Radia with his fist aimed at either of their throats.
"Luck!" spat Agrias, as she allowed him to help her to her feet. Her tone was acidic, but she was smiling ruefully. "But my mistakes, too."
"And mine," Radia muttered, as Ramza helped her up.
"I was surprised you didn't try to drain me," Ramza said.
Radia shrugged. "I'm better than you...but probably not fast enough to drain you before you hit me." She smiled. "It's my loss."
Ramza smiled back at her, and watched her walk across the floor. But as she left the tiles, she passed another man, standing just at the edge, his golden sword already gleaming in one hand, his blue eyes sparkling. In his other hand, he held the sword Agrias had knocked from Ramza's grasp.
"Now," Cid said. "I will take the measure of a Beoulve."
Ramza regarded the man standing opposite him. He had watched Cid spar with every one of his friends: he had yet to see him lose. By the man's own irrefutable word, he had been an even match even for Ramza's father.
For a moment, Ramza had dreamed of equaling his father. That dream felt very away now—ashes like Zalbaag, and Dycedarg, and the Manor in which Ramza had left his childhood behind. But the cause ahead of him was like nothing he had ever attempted before. Together, he and his friends intended to challenge the Saint Himself. The force the had laid waste to the Ydoran Empire.
There was a part of him that did not believe they could succeed. But his belief was irrelevant. The thing must be done. The risk must be taken. And he needed to test himself to the limit to see what he was capable of.
"Alright," Ramza said. Cid tossed him the sword. Ramza caught it. And a moment later, they were moving towards each other with terrible speed.
Saint Above, Cid had said, over and over through the years. He had said it in so many moods—in exasperation, in exultation, in admiration, in despair. Now he knew there was no Saint above: only a monster like a Lucavi writ large, crafted in the Saint's image.
But old habits die hard. And as Ramza and Cid crashed together, he felt himself wanting to say it again, laughing as he had once laughed at Ramza's father.
Saint Above, but watching Ramza Beoulve fight his friends had been satisfying. He was nothing like his father, nothing like Zalbaag. Zalbaag, for all his talent, had been a simple swordsman—great power, and great skill, but rarely any surprises. Balbanes had had more of Agrias and Beowulf in him—the same terrible power as Agrias, the same skill as both of them, and the same confident showmanship Beowulf displayed so often. You might mistake that showmanship for arrogance (and sometimes it was), but it was also intimidation. To see an enemy perform as they fought could drive a man mad, because it showed exactly how wide the gap was between you.
Ramza was not a showman. His swordsmanship was competent, but not so deft as Beowulf, or Melia, or Zalbaag. His power was surprising, but not overwhelming—not once in his battle against his friends had he ever overpowered them. Instead, at every turn, he had met them, surprised them, and bested them. Watching him fight, an untrained eye might not have seen how the deft precision of his speedy movements echoed the diffident care with which he'd entered the training room. But Cid's was far from an untrained eye. There was still uncertainty there, still caution and care, but supplanted by speed and decisiveness. As the battlefield changed, Ramza changed with it. His opponents often surprised him, but their surprising him did not make him any less ready to fight them. He changed too quickly for how they caught him off-guard to matter.
It had been forty years since Cid had first set foot on a battlefield. In that time, he had met many kinds of warriors—some his inferiors, some his equals, some his betters. And in all that time, he was not sure he had ever seen a warrior fight as Ramza Beoulve fought. Who turned his uncertainty into a kind of serenity, that allowed him to expect nothing of the battle in front of him, to adapt and overcome any challenge before him.
Cid closed his eyes, and cast his senses wide, and moved with all his speed.
There, see! Ramza was not expecting that speed: he stumbled, twisted, barely kept ahead of Cid's searching blade. But who cared about the stumble, who cared how close he was to defeat? He wasn't defeated yet, he was still ahead, keeping out of reach of Cid's sword but keeping close enough to strike if his chance came. Cid felt magic building in him, kept moving after him, slashing with quick strikes to keep him off-balance. The air around him shuddered with quiet thooms.
A gust of wind: Cid sliced through it as it came, kept cutting towards Ramza as Ramza kept dodging backwards. Suddenly Ramza stopped, and as Cid stepped after him, he stumbled: they were in the high-gravity square. Ramza exploded towards him-
Cid twisted, and knocked the blade from Ramza's hand. It took more effort, but his magic was one with his body, his speed and strength could compensate for the amplified gravity. In the same movement, he twisted back, to level his blade with Ramza's throat. He felt a flicker of disappointment in that moment—he had hoped Ramza would match him. Ah, but he was young yet, there was still time-
Ramza exploded upwards.
Cid blinked, focused: his senses did not quite extend that far, he could follow the trail of the burst Ramza had taken skywards but not quite sense the boy. He grimaced, opened his eyes (his sense of magic dimmed correspondingly, but he needed to track him by sight now), watched as Ramza spiraled through the air above him, kicking once, twice, thrice, going for-
His sword, which had landed two tiles away.
Cid flickered after him, arrived in the tile a scant yalm ahead of Ramza's descent. Ramza's eyes were wide and wild: he kicked again, slid past Cid at a sharp angle and somersaulted back to his feet. Fast, but not fast enough: Cid closed on him again, closed his eyes to sharpen his magic senses. Quick cuts and jabs, hemming Ramza in. Closer, closer, closer, almost...!
Another burst of magic: Ramza leapt away, but Cid could follow the trail, sped up to catch him. He landed clumsily, one leg almost buckling. Cid went in for the kill.
And his senses shuddered.
Too late, he realized his error. The square Ramza had landed in was the magic-dampening square, which flummoxed Cid's senses, left everything feeling scattered and disconnected. He tried to retreat, too late again: now it was Ramza's turn to close on him, in a flurry of quick strikes. He was letting his fists burst the same way his legs had, matching Cid speed for speed, power for power, and Cid was not prepared for this assault, even as he drove him from one tile to another and his senses were restored. This was Ramza's final gambit—he felt the hum of his magic dimming with every strike, but his strikes retained their speed, retained their power. He was gambling everything on keeping Cid off-balance. Waiting for his chance to strike.
Finally, he seized his chan: he feinted as though he intended to strike at Cid's throat, and when Cid raised his sword to defend himself, his hands snapped out to grapple him. One hand on Cid's wrist, one hand on Cid's shoulder, already pivoting to fling Cid to the ground and pluck Excaligard from his grasp as he had plucked Beowulf's blades from his.
And Cid laughed, and twisted back.
His feet found purchase on the ground: speed, power, and clarity of purpose gave him all the leverage he needed. He snapped out with his free hand, spun with Ramza as though he was dancing with him. Now all of Ramza's power was turned against him: his hands were torn from Cid, and he went spinning through the air. Cid turned that throw into a lunge: Ramza kicked off the air with the last of his failing magic, trying to buy himself time and space. But he lacked the power, he lacked the control, and Cid was strong and certain: he closed the gap between them in three thundering steps. On the last step, he entered the high-gravity tile, but his amplified stride was strong enough to carry him forwards. The two men froze.
"Your loss, Ramza Beoulve," Cid said apologetically. His sword tip was a scant ilm from Ramza's throat.
"Yours too, Cidolfas Orlandeau," Ramza answered.
Cid blinked his eyes open. Ramza was awkwardly crouched in front of him, teetering on the balls of his feet as he fought the heightened gravity. His outhrust hands were clasped firmly around Malak's katana, its tip as close to Cid's throat as Cid's blade was to Ramza's, his arms so close to Excaligard's edge they were almost touching.
Cid understood at once: Ramza hadn't kicked through the air merely try and escape Cid. He had kicked back towards the high-gravity square, where Malak's weapon had fallen two battles before. What Cid had mistaken for clumsiness had been frenzied movement, Ramza fighting the heightened gravity to ready the sword for his counterthrust. In flying back from Cid, Ramza had left the ambit of Cid's heightened senses, so Cid had not sensed him grab the sword. Cid had entered the high-gravity square already thrusting for Ramza's throat: if Cid judged aright, Ramza had thrusted out to meet him in the same instant.
And Cid's smile was so fierce it hurt his cheeks.
"So what do we call this?" Cid asked. "Zero to zero, or one to one?"
"One to one certainly sounds better." Ramza smiled sheepishly. "It was only-"
"Luck, I know," Cid laughed. "Luck, yes. But skill, too. And training. And the right equipment." He glanced the armor up and down. "Have you named it yet?"
Ramza hesitated a moment. "In Justice, and Service, and in far more aspirations besides," he said softly. "I am Honorbound."
Cid laughed. "A worthy name for a worthy work, Ramza." They lowered their blades, and Cid clasped Ramza's wrist. "You do your name proud. You do us all proud." He lowered his voice. "You do yourself proud."
Ramza blinked, and looked away. Cid pretended not to have noticed his tears, and stepped back, gesturing for Ramza to speak to his friends. Ramza looked down at his feet a moment longer, then slowly moved to the edge of the training room. His movements were weary with his efforts over the last minutes, but each step was firm.
"I..." Ramza shook his head. "It was luck. Luck that I won." He held up a forestalling hand as some of his friend started to protest. "Not just luck. But I was lucky. Just as lucky as I was, to meet every one of you." He looked around the room. "I wouldn't be standing here, if it weren't for you." He looked down again, and smiled. "But I know...what every one of you has told me. That you wouldn't be standing here either, if it weren't for me."
He took a deep breath, and looked back up at them. His smile was gone. "We've all read the Gospel. And...and most of us have seen what we're up against. What kind of evil. What kind of power. We've made it so far...but not without loss. And what they're trying to bring back..."
"We'll be heretics in earnest, if we try to stop it." His voice shook. "And we may not be able to. Ajora...Ultima...they laid waste to Mullonde. And stopping them laid waste to the rest of the Empire. All the ruins we know were born from that conflict." He closed his eyes. "I don't know if we can win."
He was quiet for a moment. The room was quiet with him.
"I don't know if we can win," he said again, and his voice had changed just like his steps had, wearier but firmer. He opened his eyes, to look around his friends. "But I didn't know if we could free Ovelia from Hokuten ambush. I didn't know if we could storm Lionel. I didn't know if we could stop Cardinal Bremondt. I didn't know if we could stop the battle at Bethla Garrison. Every time, it seemed impossible. And every time, we won through. Not without suffering. Not without loss. But we are all standing here, in spite of trying the impossible, over and over again. Because we were lucky. But not only because we were lucky."
There was a growing fire, in his eyes and in his voice. Cid saw that fire catching in the eyes of the others. He felt it catching in his own heart.
"There are things we can do that no one else can do," Ramza said. "Things we can stop that no one else can stop. I don't always believe it. I often doubt it. But then I look back at everything we've done, and I wonder how I can believe otherwise. And even...even if there was no hope...even if we could not stop the Lucavi, and their plans to bring Ultima back to Ivalice...I think we would still have to try." He looked around the room again. "Every one of us has suffered for their plans. And every one of us has suffered at the hands of men who would burn the world so they could rule it."
"Maybe we can't save Alma. Maybe we can't stop Ultima. But I think we have to try. And I think...I think if anyone can, we can. As long as it's us. All of us."
"Are you with me?"
Beowulf snorted. "Do you even have to ask?"
Reis elbowed him in the side, then smiled up at Ramza. "You risked your lives to save me. Do you think I'd do any less for all of you?"
"No more Barintens," Rafa growled. Malak nodded mutely at her side.
"No more false gods," Melia agreed.
"Our Queen has charged us to aid you," Agrias said, and smile like a blade. "And even if she hadn't, we would be by your side, Ramza." Alicia and Lavian nodded behind her.
"Someone has to keep you alive," Radia added, with a gentler smile.
"We are with you, Ramza," Mustadio said. "Now, and always."
Ramza nodded stoically, and headed for the stairs as though there weren't tears streaming down his face. His friends fell into line behind him—ten of the finest young soldiers, mages, and minds Cid had met in his life, Olan excluded. He watched them go, with a pang in his heart. How many such brilliant young people had he seen in the course of his life? He had been such a young hopeful once, marching into an unknown future. He had dreamed of honor, and courage, and changing the fate of nations with the strength of his sword. On the best days of his life, he had come close to realizing that dream: in blunting Ordallian offensives with Balbanes, and in throwing back the Ordallians at Zeltennia, and in sacking the Lion's Den.
But time had dimmed those triumphs. All his and Balbanes' brilliance had done naught but slow the Ordallian advance that had nearly swallowed Ivalice. Throwing them back once and for all had only set the stage for a civil war that had killed nearly as many people as the Ordallians, Ivalicians spilling each other's blood for the sake of power. Cid had helped to spill that blood, when he had taken Queen Louveria from the Lion's Den, and held Bethla Pass against Hokuten attack.
He had dreamed of being a hero. It seemed to him now that his dreams of heroism had always been hollow. Even his successes had ultimately brought wrought horrors. The liege lord he served was dead now, turned to paranoia and tyranny before he'd died. The Ivalice he'd fought to save in his youth was a bloody wreck now, leaderless and rudderless. And other powers plotted to make things even worse. To feed that blood to the Saint, and bring a bloody god to rule over them all.
Watching those young people march into an impossible quest, Cid felt another pang—of regret, and of hurt, and of fear. Those brilliant young souls might not be able to stem the tide. Even their successes might end up choked with failure. It could happen to them, as it had happened to him.
But fear was no stranger to Cidolfas Orlandeau—it had been with him for forty years, since he first set foot on a battlefield to prove himself worthy of the Orlandeau name. He took a deep breath, to calm the aching in his heart. And looking at them march, confident in themselves and in each other, Cid believed it didn't have to be that way. They could succeed where he had failed. They had the strength. They had the courage. They had each other. And, for whatever it was worth, they had him.
He followed the brilliant young men and women he intended to protect. He stopped, briefly, besides Bodan Daravon. They clasped wrists, and locked eyes.
"Keep them safe," Daravon said.
"They're more likely to keep me safe, given recent history." He smiled ruefully. "But what I can do, I will."
Cidolfas Orlandeau had spent his life dreaming of being a better man. In his youth, he had nursed fantasies of being a hero. His father had done his best to quash those fantasies, and prepare him for the realities of war, and the world. Cid would ever be grateful to his father for making sure he walked into battle with eyes unclouded. But now, Cid felt those fantasies again. And looking at Ramza Beoulve and the company he led, Cid believed those fantasies could be reality. He believed, for the first time in his life, that he could measure up to the stories of Ivalice. That together, they could be legends equal to the loftiest tales of the Zodiac Braves.
He let go of Daravon's wrist, and followed Ramza Beoulve.