Chapter 21: The Wheels of History

...the Ydorans spread their rule by the edge of their blades, and imagine they are invincible because all kneel before them. But men who are compelled to kneel learn to move on their knees, so they may strike when their enemies feel safest. Only when all men stand and speak as equals can their be true peace. Only when all men recognize their part in God's Kingdom can His Kingdom be realized.

-Germinas' Gospel, "Ajora's Sermon in Goug"

Wiegraf was waiting for them at the crest of a hill.

They knew they had been spotted. Reis had spied the scout who'd seen them, watched him dart back behind the hills. Ramza, Beowulf, and Delita had loosened their swords, but as they drew closer to a turning white windmill littered with the refuse of a small army, they found only a single man waiting for them. Only the brother of the woman they'd killed.

So many dead behind them. Gustav, slain for his crimes by the man in front of them. Wiegraf's sister and her Valkyries, burned upon a funeral pyre. And all the wounded who had fallen dead along the winding rut they had followed, that led them to this place. They had come so far, walking on aching legs besides Violet, heaped high with their gear. They had seen so many dead, as a chill wind blew out of the mountains.

"Beoulve," Wiegraf said, his naked sword in hand and his glaring eyes fixed on Ramza. "I hear you killed my sister."

"He did no such thing," Delita said.

Wiegraf eyes widened in surprise. "You?" he said.

"Me," Delita said.

Wiegraf stared at Delita, then looked towards Ramza. "Is this true?"

"No," Ramza said. "It was-"

"Ramza!" Delita barked.

Wiegraf sighed, the point of his sword lowering. "It is true," Wiegraf said. "And you were still going to take the blame, Beoulve?"

"Your men took his sister," Ramza said. "What choice did he have?"

"Choice?" Wiegraf repeated. His eyes drifted dreamily between them, finally settling on Delita again.

"I spoke with your sister," Wiegraf said, looking at Delita. "She's quite remarkable." He jerked his head to the mill behind him. "She's to be left there, when the last of my men depart.

Everything felt strange and surreal, like a fever dream. Ramza was tired, and his legs and arms ached. Wiegraf was letting Teta go? Had their long ride been for nothing? Had their fight against the Valkyries been for nothing?

"Thank you," Delita said.

Wiegraf grimaced. "I will not accept the thanks of my sister's killer," Wiegraf growled. "I didn't do it for you. The act disgraced us. I do not intend to treat people as pawns. I won't sink to the level of your brother, Beoulve."

Ramza stared at him. He remembered the disbelief and quiet resignation with which Miluda and Wiegraf had looked at him in the Cellar. When Ramza had tried to convince them to come with him to Igros, because his brothers could broker a peace.

"What do you mean?" Ramza asked.

Wiegraf looked up to the sky. The corners of his lips twitched. "My sister's killers want a lesson in politics," he mused. ""How did I get here?"

"Your sister tried to kill us," Beowulf said, stepping forwards with his swords drawn.

"You sent her and her soliders into the reaper's scythe," Wiegraf retorted. "What would you have done, in her shoes?"

"Argus is as a fucking bastard," Beowulf growled.

"Who?" Wiegraf asked.

"The blonde asshole," Delit said. "With the bow."

"Ah," Wiegraf said. "He's responsible?"

"Ramza asked for a safe route," Delita said. "He trusted Argus when he gave him one."

Wiegraf shook his head. "Even if I believe you," Wiegraf said. "Does that absolve you killing her?"

"She was a soldier," Beowulf said. "She attacked us. She knew the risks."

"She was my sister," Wiegraf said.

"Sister or not," Beowulf said. "If she didn't want to die, she shouldn't have tried to kill us."

"Wait," Ramza said. "Wait, just..." He didn't understand. This fight felt more fruitless than even the battle with the Valkyries. The answers were there, peace was there, Teta was just beyond them, if Wiegraf would just listen, if...!

"What, Beoulve?" Wiegraf said.

"Please," Ramza said. "What...what exactly did my brothers do?"

Wiegraf studied Ramza. Ramza looked at him, hoping to hear the answers he needed.

"How did Gustav take the Marquis?" Wiegraf asked.

"He..." Ramza shook his head, puzzled. "What?"

"How was it done?" Wiegraf asked. "How did the Marquis Messam Elmdor, a warrior of renown, traveling to discuss joint operations with Prince Bestrald Larg under the escort of a cadre of knights, fall into the hands of Gustav and his men?"

"He was disguised as a Hokuten soldier," Delita said, while Ramza tried to piece together the larger meaning behind the question.

"Exactly right!" Wiegraf said. "A clever plan, too. Gustav was once a member in their ranks, after all. Perhaps he remembers their patterns, their disciplines, and their modes of operation. Knows enough to secret himself into their ranks to achieve his black aims. It's a plausible story, as long as you don't look too closely."

"What do you mean?" Reis asked, her voice calm.

"Do you know how long Gustav and his little band were attacking caravans?" Wiegraf asked. "Taking what they needed, while they tried to find the Marquis?"

"How could we-" Ramza started.

"Three weeks, right?" Beowulf said. His brow was furrowed in concentration. "That's...one a week, for a few weeks. I remember."

"Something like that," Wiegraf said. "About a month, all told. Slaughtering caravans in Hokuten cloaks. And here, the lie falls apart."

"What lie?" Delita asked.

Wiegraf held up his free hand, ticking off his fingers as he made his points. "One man using his knowledge of the Hokuten to infiltrate their ranks...difficult, but possible. A band of thirty wearing Hokuten cloaks, operating in Hokuten territory, for over a month? Were they never challenged? Did no friendly passing knight ask them their orders? Did no true Hokuten notice them? Why not? The whole of Gallione swarmed with Hokuten knights and their lackeys, trying to put a stop to the Death Corps, but one man steals thirty Hokuten cloaks, plays pretend while killing merchants and minor nobles, and the Hokuten are blind to it?" He shook his head. "This ploy could not have functioned without the help of the Hokuten. Not one dissatisfied member, either. This was a conspiracy that had to extend to the commanders of the Hokuten itself."

Ramza and Delita exchanged shocked looks. They'd talked about this, hadn't they? They'd wondered who among the Hokuten had stolen thirty cloaks to serve Gustav's aims. But why had the larger points escaped them?

"You're...you're saying my brothers..." Ramza couldn't bring himself to finish.

Wiegraf sighed. "Why were the Corps discharged without pay, Beoulve?"

"Gallione had to pay its part of the war reparations," Ramza said. "It was either...either pay the Corps or..."

Or what? The line had always been the protection of the kingdom—keep the orphanages open, keep the people fed and protected. But had that really been true?

"You're not entirely wrong," Wiegraf admitted. "It was a question of priorities, as it is with all rulers. Do you value your own pleasure, and make yourself a hedonist without parallel, wasting your wealth on wine and women? Are you a man of the people, who guarantees the well-being of your subjects whatever the cost? Or are you a prince of ambition, with your eyes on a loftier throne?" Wiegraf smiled, though there was no trace of humor in it. "The Corps was discharged so that the Hokuten could be preserved. So that Prince Larg would have his personal army intact."

"He wouldn't do that," Beowulf said.

"Why not?" Wiegraf asked. "His infant nephew is heir to the throne, and King Ondoria grows weaker with very day. Illness or his wife's poison, it doesn't matter: Queen Louveria is already in control of the capitol, and will be in control of the country before long. The Larg family will rule Ivalice, so long as they are strong enough to deny all challengers."

"What does this have to do with my brothers?" Ramza demanded.

Wiegraf chuckled. It was a grim, awful sound, like rocks scraping against each other. "You're not stupid, Beoulve," he said. "You know."

"It's not true," Ramza said. He wasn't sure what he was denying, but whatever monstrous accusation Wiegraf was making, it couldn't be true. It couldn't.

"It is," Wiegraf said. "It was Dycedarg that had the Corps discharged, Dycedarg that made sure his Hokuten were paid and loyal while Gallione starved, Dycedarg who painted us as bandits when we fought for what was promised us, Dycedarg who who gave Gustav the tools he needed to take the Marquis!"

"No!" Ramza cried, because each accusation seemed to crack his world. Dycedarg, faithful servant of their liege lord, keeper of the family who made difficult choices? No, he couldn't be...surely...

"Why?" Delita asked.

"Why, killer?" Wiegraf asked. "You know why. East Ivalice has the weight of numbers, but they were the frontlines of the War. It'll be hard enough for them to make a challenge against Larg and his sister, but harder still if the Marquis is killed by bandits. Limberry will fall to pieces struggling to pick an heir, and the only man strong enough to challenge him will be crippled."

"Duke Goltanna," Delita said.

"And his loyal Nanten," Wiegraf agreed. "The Corps were an inconvenience, making Gallione appear weak since Dycedarg refused to fritter his men away on those he consider beneath him, so he tried to kill two birds with one stone. Let the Corps kill the Marquis, and let Limberry tear us apart in the name of vengeance. A fine plan, no? The wheels of history would put an end to Limberry and Corps alike."

"Stop it," Ramza whispered.

"Stop what, Beoulve?" Wiegraf asked. "Are you so weak of will that you cannot even bear the truth?"

"My brothers...they..." Ramza tried to find the words, tried to express that sense of awe, of always falling short. Surely Dycedarg wouldn't do such things, sacrifice justice and service in the name of greater power, surely...

But didn't it all make sense? Dycedarg's rage when they'd returned home with the Marquis safe and sound, Dycedarg's confusion over Ramza refusing to kill...

"You've a big heart, Beoulve," Wiegraf said. "But a narrow gaze. The Corps was no threat to Gallione. It was a threat to Larg and his Hokuten. It was a threat to the men who will cling to power, whatever the cost. And your brother plays that game better than most."

Ramza did not have the energy or will to protest. He still ached, from battle and from marching. And the idea that Dycedarg had enabled Gustav...that Dycedarg had been responsible for the Corps' rebellion in the first place...

"Now," Wiegraf said. "My quarrel is with my sister's killer. The rest of you may stand aside. You may even take his sister with you, once my men have left."

"I fought her, too," Beowulf said, stepping in front of Delita.

"As did I," Reis said, stepping besides Beowulf.

"Both of you, get back," Delita said, shouldering his way between them. "Save my sister. Please. It's pointless, otherwise." He raised his sword. "I deserve this."

"For fighting in a battle?" Beowulf scoffed. "We're soldiers. This is what we do."

"You are the armed, ignorant thugs of a regime that would grind the rest of this kingdom beneath its heel so it could stand upon their broken bodies," Wiegraf said. "Soldiers, ha! We were soldiers."

"Big talk," Beowulf said.

Ramza remained where he was. Everything felt fragile and flimsy, like the color had left the world. Hopeless. Powerless. Pointless.

"Enough," Wiegraf said, and swung his sword. It shimmered, and that shimmering was transfigured into a burst of white force. Ramza's instincts took over where his reeling mind could not: he flung himself to the ground, as fragments of stone and clods of dirt rained down around him. Somewhere, he heard a strangled squawk.

As the ringing in his ears faded away, Ramza heard the clashing of metal against metal. He lifted his head from the earth and saw Delita, blade locked with Wiegraf's. Delita's armor looked singed, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear, in spite of the smoking crater Wiegraf had left in the side of the hill. They blurred against each other, so the air was filled with the ringing of sword on sword.

"Violet!" Beowulf cried, somewhere behind Ramza.

Ramza craned his head to look: Beowulf was by his chocobo's side, stroking its head. The side of its neck was soaked in flood, and it was warbling softly, its big glassy eyes rolling in its face. A sliver of stone was buried in its neck, spilling blood into Beowulf's lap.

The bird cooed miserably, tried to lift its head, and slumped back to the ground, motionless.

"Damn you!" Beowulf cried, and flung himself away from the bird.

"Wulfie, no!" Reis shouted, lifting a hand to stop him, but he was already beyond her grasp. He pounded up the hill, one sword in each hand.

"A soldier!" Wiegraf shouted, kicking Delita away. Delita lost his footing, slipped and rolled down the hill. Ramza cried out and rushed towards him. "Who offers no pity for my sister, but mourns his fallen bird!"
Delita stopped rolling. Ramza reached him, helped pull him to his feet. Delita was staggering, and now that Ramza was closer he could see that Delita was more badly hurt than he'd though—one sleeve had been burned away entirely, and the skin beneath was red and blistered.

"We should run," Ramza mumbled.

"Can't," Delita said. "She's...she's close."
"I've seen your kind before, boy!" Wiegraf bellowed. Ramza turned to look, saw Wiegraf driving Beowulf back across the smoldering hilltop, step by step. Beowulf struck with all his strength, slashed wildly, but Wiegraf's solitary sword kept him at bay, precise and perfect. "Your a child playing at war! You've never thought of the lives you cut down as human! They're just characters in your story! It never even occurred to you that you would die, did it?"

"I'm a warrior!" Beowulf yelled, but there was something pitiful about it—something in the ragged, out-of-breath way he protested, a whine of desperation in his voice.

"You're playing pretend," Wiegraf sneered. "But this is a battlefield, boy. There's no place for pretenders."

Wiegraf twisted, his sword darting out, and Beowulf staggered backwards with a bloody wound in his chest.

"No!" cried Ramza and Delita together.

"NO!" howled Reis, and the shadow of those vast wings appeared around her once again, and a jet of flame smashed towards Wiegraf. In answer, Wiegraf raised his shimmering sword, and blasted back her flames with bright, booming force. Another spout of broken earth, stone and grass and dirt raining down around them, and perhaps Ramza would fall just as Violet had fallen, victim of a casual sliver of stone, but he was running without thinking because Beowulf was tumbling through the air, and Delita was charging towards Wiegraf again.

Ramza caught Beowulf before he hit the ground. The taller boy was awkward in his arms, his face pale, his lips flecked with blood. He was mumbling something, but Ramza couldn't understand him through the ringing in his ears. He breathed in ragged, rabbit-quick gasps.

As Delita and Wiegraf clashed again atop the hill, Ramza retreated to Reis and Violet. Reis was panting, but she grabbed Beowulf from Ramza's arms, cradled him as he lowered him to the earth. She rested his head in her lap, held one hand palm out just above his head and crooked the finger of her other hand. She slashed down with the crooked finger, just as she had when she'd healed them after their battle with the Valkyries: Ramza got a vague impression of scales and claws, and there was a shallow gash in Reis' palm. She lowered the wound to Beowulf's lips, and the blood that dripped from her hand glittered with colors Ramza couldn't quite describe as it fell.

"He'll be alright," Reis whispered. "He will." It sounded like a prayer.

"DELITA!"

Ramza's head jerked away from his injured friend. The voice was distant, but unmistakable. He had known Teta since he was a child.

"TETA!" Delita roared, and for a moment he was faster than Wiegraf, stronger than Wiegraf, driving the older man back across the hill in a flurry of expert slashes, a better swordsman than he'd ever been upon the Academy training grounds. Ramza circled around below the hill, until it was no longer between him and the distant windmill.

A small tableau of distant figures, clustered around a small flock of chocobos. Ramza couldn't quite make out her face, but he knew it was Teta at once—that long, clay-red hair left no mistake. She struggled in the grasp of her captors. A sword-hilt rose and fell, and Teta slumped unconscious in one man's grasp. He flung her over the side of his bird, and the small band began to climb onto their mounts.

"NO!" Delita shrieked, all rage and anguish.

"You're not going anywhere!" Wiegraf spat, and the clashing of their swords accelerated again, faster and faster. Ramza threw one look over his shoulder, saw Delita being driven back up the hill.

"Ramza!" Delita shouted. "Please!"

Ramza nodded, pushed his exhausted, aching body into a stumbling sprint, faster and faster, because Teta was so close, and they had fought so hard and risked so much to get here, because he could still feel the anguish in Delita's voice mirrored inside Ramza. He could taste hot metal at the back of his throat, but every stride took him closer to Teta, and...

But they were mounted, and the chocobos began to run, and Ramza reached back for one of his arrows, but they were in the saddlebags still slung around Violet's corpse, along with his bow, and he was close, so close he could see the livid bruise on Teta's head, but then the chocobos were pushed toa full sprint and Ramza couldn't catch them, no matter how hard he tried.

They pounded off, leaving dust behind them as they raced towards the Lenalian mountains. Ramza kept running long after he should have given up, hoping that one bird would stumble, that Teta would slip from her captor's mount. But no such miracles occurred. The small band got farther and farther away from him. There was another bird riding towards them, a solitary chocobo and its solitary rider.

And Ramza turned away, his chest aching, icicles stabbing down into the depths of his lungs, his legs trembling with effort, but he kept running, because he might not be able to save Teta but he could still save Delita. And Delita needed saving, because his momentary surge of vigor had clearly faded, and now his sword was clumsy, barely keeping Wiegraf back as Wiegraf drove him up the hill with frenzied thrusts and slashes, and Ramza didn't want to kill anyone but Delita had killed Miluda to save him and now Wiegraf was out for his blood and Ramza wasn't going to lose his best friend.

He charged up the hill, his sword drawn. Wiegraf and Delita were fighting at the crest of the hill, fencing between the two craters Wiegraf had carved into the earth. Delita was flagging and failing, his face pale, his blows slow. He stumbled backwards before Wiegraf's onslaught. The sword dropped from his fingers, and he dodged away from Wiegraf's stabbing blade.

"WIEGRAF!" Ramza shouted, with all his frustration and confusion, with all his rage that for all they'd done and all they'd been through they still couldn't save Teta.

Wiegraf turned, and snapped up his blade. Wiegraf was visibly tired—he had wounded Beowulf and driven Delita to the brink of exhaustion, but he had not done these things without effort. His dark blonde hair was limp with sweat against his forehead, and his sword was not quite as fast as Miluda's had been when she had nearly killed Ramza. But there was still that faint shimmer to Wiegraf's blade. Ramza watched it warily, afraid of any sudden spark of white that might blast him into ruin just like the hill beneath his feet. Perhaps Wiegraf was too tired to use the strange technique, but there was always peculiar force behind his blows: those shimmers would intensify, sparks of white that gave his sword the weight of an axe or a hammer.

The blade dropped with one of those forceful shimmers, and sent Ramza's sword flying down the hill, leaving his hand tingling with the aftershocks. Wiegraf stabbed towards him, and Ramza twisted, kicking Wiegraf in the side. The man stumbled down the hill, and Ramza rolled away.

"Ramza!" Delita shouted, tossing his sword. Ramza caught the blade, spun around, and parried Wiegraf's rising slash.

"You warned me, Beoulve!" Wiegraf hissed, as they dueled across the hill. "Why?"

"I don't want to kill you!" Ramza said.

Wiegraf halted, his sword raised defensively. "Another child playing pretend," he growled.

"You don't deserve this," Ramza said, on guard himself. "Neither did she. Neither did anyone!"

And was Dycedarg really responsible for this? For the discharging of the Corps, and the taking of the Marquis? Could all this really be laid at his feet?

Wiegraf snorted. "Justice and Service, eh, Beoulve? Noble goals, but how to reach them, when ambition and greed conspire against. These things require champions. I think your father really might have been one of them. Do you intend to be the same?"

Ramza shook his head. "I'm not like my father," Ramza said. No doubt about that. If it were Balbanes, he wouldn't have believed Argus. If it were Balbanes, he would have found some way to defeat Miluda without killing her.

"He's a hard example to live up to," Wiegraf conceded. He pivoted on his heel, looking between Ramza and Delita, unarmed at the top of the hill. "But you're not like your brothers, either. Where does that leave you, Beoulve?"

Ramza didn't know.

"Sir!"

The shout was tinny with distance, a new voice that Ramza didn't recognize. He hesitated to take his eyes off of Wiegraf.

Wiegraf seemed to have no such concerns. He turned his back on Ramza and Delita at once. Ramza hesitated, then tossed the sword back to Delita, underhand and hilt first. Delita caught it, and Ramza retreated down the hill to grab his sword.

"Report!" Wiegraf ordered, while Ramza and Delita rearmed themselves.

The source of the shout was the lone rider in a green cloak who'd been coming from the same direction that Teta's captors had ridden towards. He halted a little ways away, eying Ramza and Delita nervously.

"Sir?" the rider said quizically.

"Report," Wiegraf repeated.

"Hokuten forces have nearly reached Zeakden," the man said. "Zalbaag Beoulve leads them."

"Damn, already?" Wiegraf hissed. "They don't waste time, do they?" He whistled, and there was an answering cry from behind the windmill turning on one side. A golden chocobo slipped out from behind the mill and began trotting towards them.

"What are you doing?" Delita said.

"I would like vengeance," Wiegraf said. "But I would rather see the Corps survive, and my men won't reach safety if the Hokuten take Zeakden." He turned to face Delita. "I'm sorry. I gave orders for your sister to be left behind."

"Like I believe you!" Delita snarled.

"Believe or not," Wiegraf said. "The truth does not require your belief." The bird was closer—a fine, tall, golden creature, with intelligent orange eyes. "Gregory rides for Zeakden," Wiegraf said. "And he still believes his hostage to be a Beoulve. He won't kill her."

"Wait!" Ramza said. "You're not...my brothers...it's not true!" It couldn't be true. The world wouldn't make sense, if it was true. Or would the world make too much sense? Would all the pieces he hadn't quite understood align and click together, if they weren't the shadows who he'd always feared he could never live up to?

Wiegraf sighed and shook his head. "You've a big heart, Beoulve," he said. "But the world isn't like the stories. Justice and Service do not win out just because you believe. They require champions with open eyes."

The bird had drawn close enough: Wiegraf swung up onto it's back in one fluid motion, and rode away at a brisk trot, and Wiegraf and the messenger headed towards the mountains. Ramza stared after him, his head spinning from what Wiegraf had said, his heart pounding and chest heaving as he struggled for breath, feeling weak with the after-rush of adrenaline still drizzling through his system. He looked towards Delita, whose swordpoint had dropped to the earth. He looked like he was barely keeping his feet.

"Are you-" Ramza started, and Delita turned away from him, staring off in the direction his sister's captors had ridden.

Ramza shook his head and moved back down the hill towards Reis and Beowulf, sheathing his sword as he went. The front of Beowulf's shirt was soaked in blood, but the wound had already clotted. He was still pale, but his breathing wasn't nearly so labored.

"Is he alright?" Ramza asked.

Reis stroked Beowulf's hair. "He will be," she said. "But he can't...he can't go any farther."

Ramza looked at Delita, standing atop the hill and staring pointedly to the south.

"Reis," he said. "I think we have to-"

"I know," Reis said. "Don't worry about us." She lifted her voice. "Delita!" Delita didn't move. Reis sighed and said, "Ramza. We've got to get Beowulf until he's ready to move."

Ramza nodded, stumbled up the hill as his legs burned in protest. "Delita," he said. Delita didn't answer, and Ramza tried to clasp his shoulder. Delita shook off his touch, taking a few staggering steps down towards the mountains.

"Del!" Ramza shouted, grabbing him and wheeling him around. Delita tripped backwards, then lifted his sword so it was pointed towards Ramza's throat. Ramza froze, staring at that sword, his mouth open. The world cracked again: he though it might break to pieces any moment.

Delita's eyes widened, and the sword dropped from his hand and clattered on the cratered hill. He buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Ramza said. But of course, it wasn't okay. That sword had been pointed at him. Delita had pointed a sword at him. A man had tried to kill them while sharing more of himself than Ramza's brothers had. He'd let them go, because justice and righteousness were more important than vengeance. Teta had been so close...!
"It's okay," Ramza repeated. He slung an arm around Delita's shoulders, pulled his friend close, and guided him back down the hill.

Reis, in the time they'd been talking, had set Beowulf up on a bedroll and started pulling bags off of Violet's corpse. Ramza and Delita helped her. Ramza couldn't resist stroking the feathers on the dead bird's face. She'd served them so faithfully, from the Academy to the Cellar to here. Ramza couldn't fault Beowulf for his rage.

They left Violet on the hill, and together hauled Beowulf to the windmill the Corps had abandoned. Delita looked around, his eyes watering. "She was here," he muttered. "She was..."

"I know," Ramza said, as the gears churned ever on.

They finished packing their own bags and helping Reis adjust the gear they were leaving with her. Beowulf had not moved or stirred throughout all of this.

"How is he still asleep?" Ramza asked.

"I did that," Reis said. "Should help him heal faster."

Ramza and Delita finished packing their bags with food, tents, and other gear. They turned to face Reis. Ramza wasn't sure what he wanted to say.

"Hands out," she said.

Delita and Ramza exchanged confused looks, but obeyed without questioning. The whisking, scaly claw slashed again: lines of fire burned up their palms. Ramza hissed through his teeth. Delita made no sound at all. Reis extended her own hand, cut open the clotting line there, and clasped hands with each of them, pressing cut against cut.

Ramza felt the tiredness wash out of his bones, the tinny hollow feeling of hard exercise and hard fighting replaced with substance and strength. Reis wobbled unsteadily on her feet.

"Are you..." Ramza started.

"What?" Delita said, at the same time.

"Bit of strength," Reis said. "Keep you...on your feet. Won't need sleep. She's close." Reis was pale, but her eyes were set in a determined glare. "Get her back, boys."

Ramza nodded. "Take care of him," he said, nodding towards Beowulf.

"Like I'd ever let anything bad happen to him," Reis said.

Ramza hugged Reis, and she hugged him, and they remained like that for a moment, both barely on their feet, both reeling, taking comfort in the other. But Delita was already halfway out the door, and Ramza had to hurry to catch up. They strode past the smoldering fires with the half-burned bodies, and the refuse and latrine pits, the stinking legacy of a camp of the sick, the desperate, and the dying.

"Ramza," Delita said. "I'm...I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Ramza said. "If it was Alma-"

He cut himself off, too late. He saw Delita stiffen, from the corner of his gaze. Ramza felt the same strange, confused hurt gnawing inside him. If it was Alma, the Hokuten would have been her, riding down her captors. Because the Beoulves were men of such power and influence. The men who fought and killed for the cause of Justice and Service, and not petty ambition or greed. Never men who would betray their oaths and hurt the weak for the sake of convenience and power.

Right?

Ramza and Delita didn't speak, as they left the mill behind them, and trudged towards the shadowy bulk of the mountains, grey with the promise of weighty snowclouds.