(Sorry for the delay, folks. The final chapter of Part 6 should release 6/12/24)
Chapter 158: The Weight of a Name: Alma
Ascending out of the Deep was a much faster process than descending into it had been. For one thing, they they knew where they were going this time—they did not have to fumble through the dark. For another, they had Elidibus to guide them, and he had spent ten years exploring every ilm of this ancient place.
They did not leave right away—Cletienne insisted on lingering in Pandemonium another day, to try and claim some part of its power for his own. He failed entirely—he could not master the magics that warped time and space within its walls, nor could he reach any of the laboratories hidden deeper within the complex.
"It's a twofold problem," Elidibus explained. "This was meant to be a secure facility: even Hashmalum was barred from its secrets, and he was one of the Empire's luminaries." He glanced at Vormav. "Could you reach the labs, the libraries, the warden's office?"
"Perhaps with time," Vormav said, shrugging.
"Perhaps," Elidibus repeated, grinning. "And even if you could...I'm not sure how much you would be able to claim. This place was built to be self-sufficient. The same design that has allowed it to endure the centuries also makes it difficult to crack." He flicked one finger: a bolt of shattering force power crackled from his finger, and tore a hunk of luminescent stone from the nearby wall, which he caught with practiced ease. Almost as soon as he had caught it, its light began to dim, and the flowing runes went still. "It's not like a Mage Knight's sword, or a Stone. The power of this place comes from being part of a whole."
Cletienne was quiet, staring at the still stone in Elidibus' hand. Alma was quiet, watching him. She remembered what he had said, when they had first reached Labyrinthos. She remembered that he wanted to rebuild the wonders of the Ydoran Empire, whatever the cost. He would sacrifice her, to make more Pandemoniums in Ivalice. He would sacrifice her, to see Ajora reborn.
There was a part of her that wondered if she should be flattered. The Church who had helped raise her had often spoken of the day that Ivalice would redeem itself of the sin done to the Saint, and prove that there were no more Germoniques among them. When that day came, the Judgment of the Saint would be repeated, as beautiful and beneficent as the Fall had been devastating. Where once the Empire Fell, now all the earth would Rise, made bountiful and beautiful in the light of God and His appointed Saint.
And the only cost was Alma, obliterated.
The fear she had felt weeks ago had never entirely left her. Now it felt more urgent, more imminent. The hell Vormav had pulled her through twice now would fill her, consume her. She would be hollowed out, and the Saint would take her place. Somehow, that made it worse.
They left Pandemonium as soon as Cletienne was ready—Elidibus wore only his rough furs and leathers, and walked barefoot through the Deep with light blooming from his gnarled staff to illuminate their way. They stopped only for short rests—scant hours between tumbling down on aching legs to sleep and rising again at Loffrey's silent prompting. It took very little time to reach the spiral stairs leading up into the ceiling.
"It is time to put paid to the revenants," Vormav said.
Elidibus glanced at Vormav with interest. "You can do that?"
"Anyone can," Vormav said. "But I can do it more easily than most."
"Lead on." Elidibus gestured up the stairs.
Elidibus, Cletienne, and Vormav headed up the stairs. Loffrey took a seat on the steps, without looking at her. Alma slumped to the ground.
"You're here to stop me killing myself," Alma said, after some time had passed. The thought had been with her all through the long, aching walk. Throw herself down the stairs, steal one of their blades, hurl herself into the path of a monster...she could spare herself the fate they had in mind for her. She could thwart all their plans, if she was only willing to die.
"I am here to protect you from the dangers of the Deep," Loffrey replied. "You are no danger to yourself."
Alma blinked. "What?"
"You might be afraid of what will become of you," Loffrey said, still not looking at her. "But you have been through the Underside. You know what awaits the dead of Ivalice. Is being in that hell any better than being Ultima's host?"
Alma said nothing. Loffrey's voice was low, steady, dispassionate, as though he were simply discussing the weather.
"Even if you decided it was worth it—to take your own life, and thwart our plans in so doing..." Loffrey continued. "There is another reason you would not...perhaps could not." He paused contemplatively for a moment. "Hope."
Alma blinked. "Hope?"
"Obvious hope, too...but not just that." For the first time, Loffrey looked at her. Still, he seemed distant and disinterested. "Did I tell you I fought them? Your brother, and his friends."
Alma shook her head. "When?"
"Riovanes."
She stared at him. "You...you were there when-"
"I helped kill Izlude," he said. "And the Hand." He looked sad for a moment. "It was a pity...I had hoped to spare the Time Mage, at least. But she would not yield. None of them would."
"Can you blame them?" Alma asked.
"No." He sighed. "They believed in their cause. They were smart, and clever, and determined." He paused. "Just like you." His eyes focused on her for the first time. "Your brother is the same way. Surrounded, two of his allies pinned with blades at their throats, and he would not surrender. He thought he would win through. He was right." He smiled, and looked nearly as sad as he had when talking about the Hand. "Your brother may save you. But even if we killed him...you would not break. You would look for your chance to win. It's who you are."
Alma shook her head. "You're just...you're just telling me that. So I don't..."
"You wouldn't. You won't. You can't."
He looked away from her, and did not speak again.
She felt the moment when they dispelled the revenants. It was muted, as Vormav had told her it would be days ago: the stone muffled the screaming, so it only tingled against her mind, like the buzzing of flies by your ear. And soon, even those muted screams faded into some black distance, just as the Marquis' scream had. Just as Dycedarg's.
She didn't bother telling Loffrey. She didn't want to go after them yet. Every moment mattered now. Buying her time before she served as host to the nightmare Elidibus had described. The vengeful god that the Saint had become, feasting on Ivalice's dead.
Elidibus returned some time later, smiling thoughtfully. "Seeing a Lucavi work is truly something to behold."
"He's pressed on ahead?" Loffrey asked.
"Him and Clietenne both," Elidibus chuckled. "Cletienne wants to see if he can do it, too."
Loffrey rolled his eyes. "And now who's left to haul our gear?"
"Oh, I don't mind." Elidibus casually slung one of their packs around his back, and an extra one on each shoulder.
"Do what?" Alma asked, as they started up the spiral ramp out of the Deep.
"Kill a revenant," Elidibus said. "Killing a man is relatively easy—cut this vein, stab this organ. Mind, it's also easy for another man to kill you. Severed from their flesh, a revenant is weaker—can't kill you quite as easy—but the trade-off is they're hardier. No veins to cut, no throats to crush. You have to extinguish them. Catch them in your magic without letting them feed on you. Requires precision and tenacity both. Hashmalum found it easy enough" He glanced back at her, as the darkness closed in around them. "I bet you could do it, too."
Right. Her gift for the soul, that made her such a perfect host.
False starlight trickled down to them before too long—the white stone dais where they had fought the fiends stood ajar, and they emerged out of the darkness and into the twilit swamp.
"Let's speed your way a bit, shall we?" Elidibus asked, striding to the edge of the dais. He raised his staff for a moment, swirled it idly in the air as though stirring a pot, then slammed its heel down into the mud. As the heel made contact with the bog, Alma felt a vague, rippling sense of movement nearby: then impact came, and the force of it made her flinch backwards a step. From the heel of Elidibus' staff, a ridge of earth began to form as though something were moving beneath the surface of the mud, sloughing dirty water off its sides as it surged like a snake into the shadowy distance. It was just wide enough for them to walk single-file.
"How..." Alma stared in disbelief. She'd never seen anyone use magic like this.
"Practice," Elidibus chuckled, striding out on the path he'd made. Loffrey gestured for her to follow him, then followed behind her. "The Ydorans had a scientific method for this. You form a hypothesis—say, that you can suck the cold out of an object. Then you test the hypothesis: take a block of ice, and try to remove the cold without applying heat. And then, whether your hypothesis was successful or not, you've learned something—that cold is not a force in itself, but an absence of heat. And from that, you learn that, while you cannot take the cold from an object, you can take its heat...and move it somewhere else."
He gestured at the path beneath them with his staff. "I don't have Cletienne's knack for summoning, but I experimented with applying my will in other forms. It's not so different than forming a wall of light, except that you have to deal with the matter that is. You have to learn to apply your will more as a chisel."
"Power and precision," Alma said. "Like dealing with the revenants."
"Exactly!"
They pressed on the path awhile longer. Alma's thoughts now drifted to the revenants.
"When they die..." Alma said. "Do they...does Ultima..."
Elidibus cocked his head thoughtfully. "I don't know," he admitted. "I suspect not. For one, I'm not sure these are human souls, and I believe the magic that makes up Ultima was made for humans. For another, the magic that created them is much like the magic that binds the Lucavi. I would not think Ultima's bonds could catch them once they were freed...but I cannot be sure." He glanced over his shoulder. "Hashmalum might know."
Alma didn't bother answering. When Elidibus had told her—of how the Saint had seized Project Ultima, of how Germonique had turned that magic against him, and of how Hashmalum's goal was to release the seal and make her Ajora's vessel—Hashmalum had barely spoken. That had been the pattern for days now. And of her captors, Vormav had been clearest in how little he cared for her. To him, she was only a means to an end.
"You can make a path?!"
Cletienne's outrage cut through their walking several hours later. He and Hashmalum were camped on the rough hillock above the tunnel entrance that led farther up into Labyrinthos: Cletienne sprang down onto Elidibus' path, scowling.
"Apparently so!" Elidibus said cheerfully.
"How?" Indignation was mixed with curiosity and envy in Cletienne's voice. Elidibus shot an amused glance at Alma over his shoulder, and explained as they made camp.
"But I don't understand why you didn't offer it to us!" Cletienne muttered, as they huddled over a flickering fire.
"He still has a shred of his good graces," Alma put in.
Elidibus laughed. "Exactly so!" He grinned at Cletienne. "I could hardly ask a lady to going wading through the muck."
"He's much more gallant than you," Alma added.
Cletienne scowled at both of them, and sulked as they settled in for the evening. By morning, he had recovered, and he and Elidibus talked animatedly all through the dark crevasse that led up into the eternal afternoon/evening of the hillside plains. Alma's legs ached with the effort of their ever-upward climb back to the surface.
"This was one of your hunts?" she asked, as they passed the dragon's bones.
Elidibus gave the ruined corpse a fond look. "Tiamat," he said. "Another Ydoran Experiment, to see if they could use Dragoner arts to empower a Dragon. They bound two other dragon souls to her. She was more powerful than most examples of her kind, and sprouted two extra heads, besides."
Alma stared at the solitary skull that remained in the crater. "So...so where are the other heads?"
"Behind us," Elidibus answered. "I severed one in the Deep Proper. Took the other in the bog. Finally brought her down here." He patted the skull. "She was a worthy foe."
Vormav did not let them linger long. He rarely spoke—his eyes seemed distant, focused far beyond Labyrinthos. Focused on the Saint he would bring back to life.
Another brief stop in the forest, before they entered the highest level of Labyrinthos—the rolling hills around the vast false sea, with its false island at the center. The false sun above whirled in burnished gold.
"Cletienne says that might be an adamantoise," Alma said.
"He might be right."
"Surprised you haven't tried to fight it."
Elidibus shrugged. "It may be a worthy foe. Perhaps I shall return one day, to test my strength against it." He paused, staring down at the island. "But it is...not quite like the residents of Pandemonium, or the beasts I hunted elsewhere. It is at rest. At peace." He smiled. "As I said...I retain a shred of my good graces."
"I wish I could see it," Alma said softly.
"Do you want me to rouse it from its torpor?" Elidibus asked.
Alma was quiet for a moment. Again, she tried to imagine what such a creature would look like—a creature large enough to be mistaken for an island. How much would it look like a turtle? How much would it look like something else entirely?
Almost, she asked Elidibus to do it—to strike it, to use his terrible power to force it to the surface. She was going to suffer and die: didn't she deserve to see something wonderful before the end?
But then the moment passed. Like Elidibus had said, the creature was one of the last of its kind, at ease in this safe haven that had survived utter catastrophe. She could not hurt it just to satisfy her curiosity.
She left without a word, tears burning in her eyes. Elidibus followed after. She managed to keep her poise until they reached the tunnel in the hillside—the one that wound up out through the dark, and back to the world of men. When Alma turned to look back at Labyrinthos, she was not alone. Elidibus, Cletienne, Loffrey, and Vormav all gazed out with her—across the green hills, and the distant forest. The false sun whirled and gleamed above.
One last push—through the rough tunnel that led out from the Deep and back into the world. The darkness of the tunnel did not feel nearly so suffocating this time. After all, there were far greater dangers surrounding her. And far greater dangers waiting ahead.
She was stumbling when they finally ascended the endless stairs, and stood beneath a proper sky again. The size of it stunned her: she'd become used to the more limited horizons of Labrinthos, at odds with the blinding radiance of the true sun, and the eye-watering depth of the true sky.
As she stared up into the sky, Vormav glanced around them, then settled his gaze on Loffrey. "You're fresh enough?"
Loffrey smiled thinly. "I've borne far worse."
Vormav nodded. "Take Elidibus and Cletienne to Barich. I want him ready to fight." The name tickled some part of Alma's brain, though she couldn't remember where she'd heard it. "Then stand ready in Mullonde."
Loffrey inclined his head. Cletienne and Loffrey smiled—Cletienne's smile was tremulous, but Elidibus' was full of wicked glee. Then Loffrey placed his hands on their shoulders, and they vanished in a faint blur and and a rustle of wind. Vormav was already walking. Alma didn't bother following after him.
He stopped after only a few steps, and cocked his head back at her. "I can knock you unconscious and carry you, if I have to," he said conversationally.
Alma shrugged. "If I can slow you down a little, it buys me time."
Hashmalum regarded her quietly. Alma stared steadily back. A cool breeze blew in from the sea. Birds chirped. After the artificial world of Labyrinthos, Alma was surprised how much noise there was in the world: the wind, the distant murmur of the surf, the sounds of birds and other animals.
"Time for what?" Hashmalum asked.
"To live."
"For what?"
The crashing of the waves hung heavy between them.
"You are...18 years old?" Hashmalum asked.
"19," Alma said.
"19, then." He looked away from her, towards the sound of the distant surf. "In your short span of years, you have seen three wars and terrible plague. You, born to one of the high houses of Ivalice, have been threatened by rebels, by Inquisitors, and by brigands like me." He looked back to her. "Vormav Tengille is the 99th soul to join with Hasmalum. Our memories stretched across a thousand years before the Empire fell. In your 19 years, think on the tragedies you have seen. Imagine what I have seen, Alma Beoulve."
She imagined—she couldn't help it. The things Elidibus and Cletienne had told her, the things Vormav himself had alluded to, the things she'd seen in Midnight's Deep. The wonders of Labyrinthos and Pandemonium...the horrors of the revenants...
And she remembered other things, too. She remembered holding her mother's hand in the plague tents as Ramza called desperately for a Healer. She remembered holding her father's hand in just the same way, crying for him and crying for her and crying for the injustice that her mother hadn't gotten to die in her bed like her father had and crying because even with royal Healers no one could save him. She remember strong hands grabbing her, striking her, hurting her as the Death Corps came killing; she remembered watching Teta disappear into the distance on a chocobo's back.
And she remembered Izlude, as she'd last seen him alive. Izlude Tengille, bruised and battered and standing to fight. Clara was next to him, holding her own guts in, racing back to save her friends.
None of them had survived. They had died at the hands of the people she'd spent the last days with. At the hands of demons like the thing in front of her.
Her heart hardened. She glared at Vormav. He stared steadily back at her, cocking his head to one side.
"Dycedarg Beoulve poisoned Balbanes."
The words trickled to her consciousness slowly. She blinked—a slow wave of darkness down, then a slow wave of light up. "What?"
"Your father did not die of Choking Plague," Vormav continued. "He died because your eldest brother, heir to his house, decided to kill him for power. As so many men and women have killed for power, and built new castles upon the corpses of their victims. You have seen horrors, Alma Beoulve. And you are one of the lucky ones."
Alma blinked again. Her aching legs gave out, and she fell to her knees. She barely noticed.
"And the one Empire that saw the whole miserably cycle for what it is...they decided to turn into engine to fuel still-greater misery." Vormav shook his head. "Do you know what Germonique's true sin was, Alma Beoulve? Cowardice. When I told Ajora and his allies of Project Ultima, they were all rightly horrified. But only Ajora had the will to see what must be done. The sword of the Empire had to be seized, and driven through its heart. But the sins of the Empire were the sins of man writ large. To kill an Emperor would only be to raise another in his place. Destroy the Empire, and a new one would arise. But if you could only enthrone a proper, righteous ruler, one who would profit more than you by every death...you could end the cycle once and for all."
Vormav looked off again, to the sea. Alma vaguely heard the sea, but it did not reach her mind. All she heard, over and over again, were Vormav's words: Dycedarg Beoulve poisoned Balbanes.
"Ultima should have been that ruler," Vormav said softly. "But Germonique was afraid, and he burned the world in his fear. He entombed the god who could have saved us, and made sure that the sins of the Empire would be repeated, time and time again."
She didn't doubt what Vormav had told her. Dycedarg was brilliant, and Dycedarg was cold. If he had seen their father's death was necessary, he would have done it. So she believed this ancient demon, as he told her her father had died, not of plague, but of poison, given to her eldest brother. The shape of her life, as pawn to Beoulve plotting, had been decided from that point forwards.
"He deserves this faith, you know," Vormav whispered. "The Church that calls him Saint is right to do so. Ajora did not succumb to Germonique's cowardice. Ajora saw further. Ajora saw that, to put an end to the cycle of violence, there needed to be an ultimate power, beyond the cycle. The same force the Emperor had envisioned, reshaped into a benevolent god for all mankind. If it were not for Germonique, the Empire would never have fallen: instead, it would have been transformed. Laybrinthos would not be a playing for demons and monsters, but one wonder among many, and all those wonders in service to all people of the world. Eternal justice, thanks to a perfect judge. Eternal order, under Ultima's watchful eye."
Vormav was standing in front of her. She wasn't conscious of him having approached her. She was barely conscious of anything. She was thinking of her wry, laughing father, who had trapped her in the gilded cage meant for noble girls with utmost kindness. She was thinking of her wheezing, desperate father, hoping to keep his children on a righteous path even as he died. She was thinking of Dycedarg—brilliant, far-sighted Dycedarg, who she loved because he seemed to see the rules of the game as clearly as she did, and played with them rather than letting them play him. She was thinking of what Ramza had told her, of Dycedarg's schemes. She was thinking of her brother, the murderer, who had turned into a Lucavi.
"If you live, what purpose will you serve?" Vormav asked her. "What good will you accomplish, that will equal what Ultima can achieve?" He knelt in front of her. "And there are other reasons to work with us, Alma Beoulve. Ultima is as far from we Lucavi as we Lucavi are from mortal man...but it is possible that the same rules that govern us govern him. If you join with him willingly, more of you may endure. You may join with Ultima entirely, as we Lucavi join our mortal hosts."
Some of her shocked stillness began to slough away. She felt a dim longing for what Vormav answered her. She was already so afraid of being lost within the hell he'd dragged her through. To be empowered by it, enriched by it...to become the Saint in earnest, and wield such strength that even Elidibus would fear her...!
"And even if your fate is the same...think of the good that will come of your sacrifice. No more Tetas killed in a war that was not theirs. No more Miludas killed for trying to fix a broken world. No more Ovelias sacrificed for the ambitions of the powerful. No more Balbanes killed by treachery." He paused for a moment. "No more Almas, made to be a captive and a pawn.
The shock faded further still; she managed to focus on his face. "No more Izludes, dying because their father thinks he knows better."
Vormav arched his eyebrows. "His father did know better. And his father hoped to spare him his fate. As he hopes to spare you yours."
Alma shook her head. "When...when the Marquis was trying to...get me to join you...you didn't care."
Vormav locked eyes with her again."You mistake ruthlessness for indifference," he said at last. "Your consent, or lack thereof, will change nothing. As Izlude's defiance or understanding would change nothing. The final outcome will be the same: Ultima reborn, and Ivalice set to rights." His eyes softened, just a little. "But your fate matters to you. You need not die, clawing and clinging to a life you cannot keep. You may go willingly, and help us repair the world once and for all. There is hope."
She remembered Izlude, crying in her arms. She remembered Izlude, poised and determined, one hand on Clara's shoulder as they blurred back into desperate battle. She remembered Izlude, half his skull crushed to bloody pulp by his father's demonic hand.
She remembered meeting his father for the first time, in his leonine shape. She remembered commanding him with Virgo's terrible light. She remembered the Marquis, alive and somber. She remembered the Marquis' Lucavi scream. She remembered Dycedarg's scream, too.
And who had killed Dycedarg? Who had slain that Lucavi, and every other Lucavi who had crossed his path?
Against the clear, distant sky of her thoughts, fury flashed like lightning, and banished her shock. Before her stood Hashmalum, a demon in the skin of a man, who had hurt and killed so many, including his own son. He hammered her with Dycedarg's sins, and the deaths and suffering of so many people. So lightly, so casually, he alluded to his own role in these horrors. The role he'd played a thousand years ago, as a Lucavi of the Empire. The role he'd played, in helping that Empire fall. The role he played now, murdering and lying his way across Ivalice.
She slapped him, hard as she could, across the face. Her palm stung with the force of it. His head flinched to one side. His face barely changed.
"You're a monster," she said. "What you want is monstrous. But Ramza will stop you, as he's stopped all the others. And if he doesn't? I will."
It was just as Loffrey had said. The hope inside her could be blunted, exhausted, crippled, contained...but it could not be extinguished. Maybe it would lead her to destruction: maybe she would become a vessel for terrible power, a tyrannical god who would rule the world as he pleased. But the Saint had not been brought back to life yet.
And Vormav's plans had not all gone as he'd wished. Ramza had stopped so many of them: had even faced their murderous brother, fueled by a Lucavi's strength, and sent him screaming back into death. How could Alma do any less?
Perhaps she would learn how to use Ultima's power herself: perhaps she could steal that strength, as Ajora had once stolen it so long ago. And even if she couldn't win, she could still fight. As Izlude had fought. As her brother fought.
Vormav turned his head slowly back to her. His lips were twisted, ever-so-slightly, to one side. He watched her wearily, and shook his head a fraction of an ilm. "A pity," he sighed.
Golden fire ignited off of his form, and swam towards her. And Alma shouted into the flame, answering with her own golden light. It could last only a moment—she knew firsthand how strong her captors were. But she would make them fight for every moment, every ilm. She was Alma Beoulve, and she was not beaten yet.