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Chapter 96: Pathetic Wretch

This cult that has been built around him, where they call him Saint? They do not see his flaws...or his glories. I have written at great length about his scheming manipulations, his callous cruelty, his ruthless sacrifice of even those he claimed to love if it would sate his mad ambitions. But I have not spoken of his courage, his brilliance, his power: how he could turn every spell against its would-be wielders, face bandits and soldiers and the highest officers of the Empire alike with nothing but a withering smile and the force of his will. This bland Saint they raise as a paragon cannot hold a candle to the man I knew, however monstrous he was. And to protect this misbegotten image, they conjure imaginary demons, creatures from the great beyond who torment Ivalice.

Fools. What need has Ivalice of demons? The hearts of men have ever been wicked enough to feast upon each other.

-The Gospel According to Germonique, I.S.V. (Inquisitor Simon Version)

They ran through stone halls trembling with echoes of distant power, each impact like the footstep of a giant. They were not alone, though almost everyone else they saw was fleeing the opposite way, wild-eyed servants screaming as they ran, bloodstained soldiers shouting commands at one another or desperate questions to Malak. Malak shouted back terse answered and then was gone, with Ramza only a step behind him.

"She'll head towards the explosion!" Malak cried.

"And my sister?" Ramza asked. He had drawn his sword.

"Opposite wing of the castle. She...she should be safe." But Ramza heard the doubt in his voice.

They pounded up a spiral staircase, struggled to open the door on the other end. Malak hissed curses under his breath, rattled the door with such force that the swords hovering at his shoulder rattled, too.

"Wait," Ramza said, frowning and putting his ear to the door. "Do you hear that?"

Malak blinked, started to shake his head, then stopped. Both of them were silent for a moment...until they heard the muffled sob on the other end of the door.

"This is Malak of Galthena, leader of the Duke's Hand!" Malak bellowed through the door. "Let us through and we can help you!"

There was a low moan, and the sound of something shifting. Malak tried the door again, and it swung open. "Why did you-" Malak began, before his words were choked off in a shocked gasp.

Ramza peered over Malak's shoulder, felt his own breath catch in his throat. The soldier on the other side of the door was panting with exertion, his eyelid fluttering. The other eye was a weeping slurry of white pus across the blackened ruin of his face. He was leaning heavily against a nearby wall: as they watched, he slid slowly to the ground, to land in a puddle of his own blood. His left leg ended roughly at the knee, in a jut of splintered bone and ragged flesh.

"Commander...Malak," gasped the soldier. "S...sorry. We...g-got the Duke out, but...but the monsters..."

His eyelid closed. Malak leaned in front of the soldier, shot an anxious look at Ramza. Ramza dropped to one knee beside him, put his sword on the ground and found a rune for healing on his glove. He placed it gently on the thigh of the wounded leg, wincing in sympathy with his low groan of pain.

"I...couldn't keep..." The soldier whimpered, deep in his throat. "I...ran, I...I'm sorry..."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Malak said. Like Rafa, his voice was terribly young. Like Rafa, his voice was terribly firm. "You did your duty."

Ramza tried to pour a little magic into the man, but he could feel it draining away almost as quickly as it was gone.

"The...the rest of the Hand...was fighting..." the soldier whispered.

Malak stiffened. "Rafa?"

"Didn't...see her...everything was..." The soldier's breathing hitched, then stopped entirely. Ramza took his hand off the man's thigh, stood up with a wave of dizziness.

"Monsters," repeated Malak. "What did he mean, monsters?"

"You know what he meant," Ramza replied.

Malak shot him a searching, helpless look. "That's not...Lucavi aren't real."

"You didn't seem so disbelieving back in Yardrow."

"I was lying."

"I'm aware." Ramza frowned for a moment at the dead soldier. This man was one of his enemies, as much as they younger man beside him. But no one deserved to die like this.

Alma's in this castle.

"We need to move," Ramza said, snatching up his sword. "My sister..." He looked at Malak again. "And yours."

Malak nodded, rose to his feet, and set off again. But they had not gone far when he came to a sudden stop. Ramza, just a step behind him, stopped as abruptly as he did.

The room beyond must have been one of the treasures of Riovanes Castle. On a far end, an enormous pane of glass showed a gorgeous view of chocobos of many colors racing across a green hillside, their feathers ruffled beneath a gentle breeze that stirred the grass below their feet, the golden sun a gentle balm from its high place in clear blue skies. The room was terraced in four descending sections of white marble, huge blocks with ornate patterns carved into their glistening surface, with doors on either side of each terraced section. A fountain bubbled at the corners of the moving picture, pouring down in orderly trickles through sluices alongside each terrace and running beneath the doors.

These were details that Ramza absorbed passively, as his eyes found the two doors nearest the picture window. The burning splinters of those shattered doors were scattered across the room, smoking still beneath the runelight from the walls. Seven corpses lay broken across the room, some still clutching their weapons. The blood beneath their bodies stained the white marble red.

Beneath the moving picture, Wiegraf Folles stood holding an eighth corpse by the throat. He dropped the broken body to his feet as the blood dripped from his fingers. The golden sword in his right hand gleamed in the runelight.

"Malak," Ramza said, without taking his eyes off Wiegraf. "You know this place better than I do. I need you to find them."

From the corner of his eye, Ramza could see Malak holding himself with the same martial stillness, his swords floating by his shoulders. Ramza felt a strange stab of affection for the boy. In spite of his cruelty, in spite of his coldness, he had been kind to the dying soldier, and he had left the battle behind without a thought so he could save his sister. He saw why Rafa loved him.

"Between the two of us-" Malak started.

"Both of us might not be enough," Ramza said. "And you heard what that soldier said. Monsters. Not monster."

Malak shook his head. "He doesn't look like a monster."

"He wouldn't."

Wiegraf's lips quirked. "Come now, Beoulve. I am no more monstrous than your brothers. No more monstrous than you."

Ramza didn't move. "I saw what you became."

"What I became," Wiegraf scoffed. "What I ascended into. A legacy of power you cannot imagine." His smile flickered out. "Or perhaps you can, Beoulve. You were born into such a legacy, weren't you?" His eyes burned, literal coils of smoke trickling from their corners. "A lesser legacy than mine, I fear."

Malak made a sudden dash for the door on Wiegraf's left hand. Wiegraf's sword snapped up, glowing with power: equally fast, Ramza snapped up his gloved hand as he dropped his sword, one finger on the lightning rune. Wiegraf twisted, caught the lightning on the edge of the blade in a detonation of shimmering force. Two fallen corpses tumbled away from him: one was aflame, and the reeking meat of its burning body carried through the bloody air.

Ramza flung himself backwards as Wiegraf lunged towards him with shimmering steps, his hands snapping quiver and arrow from his back as Wiegraf burst from the edge of the white terrace, loosing the arrow almost as soon as he had drawn it: Wiegraf's free hand snatched it from the air. He landed with a whooshing burst of air; more fallen bodies tumbled away from him. Ramza remained where he was, another arrow already nocked to his bow. The door Malak had escaped through clicked shut behind him.

"Come now, Beoulve," Wiegraf laughed, snapping the arrow in two. "My pathetic wretch of a sister could catch your arrows. I have sipped from the cup of gods: did you think I could do any less?"

The hair on the back of Ramza's neck prickled. "She wasn't a wretch."

"Why deny it?" Wiegraf asked, shrugging. "She was my sister. I loved her. And she was pathetic."

Ramza loosed his arrow. Wiegraf knocked it aside with an off-hand slap, so it clattered with a splash into one of the running fountains on the edges of the room.

"You're not Wiegraf," Ramza said, nocking another arrow.

"I'm not just Wiegraf," Wiegraf admitted. "So fragile. So alone. So full of conviction that the right example would make the weak stand up to the strong." He chuckled. "You mistake me, Beoulve. I do not call my sister pathetic because I disrespect her. She was pathetic because she followed me, in all my folly."

"It wasn't folly," Ramza whispered. "You were a good man."

"And you killed me all the same."

Ramza's jaw clenched. "You took my sister. You killed Simon."

"Did I say I blamed you?" Wiegraf asked. "You were only acting as any man with power does: as a giant, ruling over insects."

"Wiegraf would never-"

"Wiegraf killed Simon." He laughed. "I killed Simon. I killed so many men and women to finally realize the dream of the Death Corps. As though that dream could ever be achieved."

Ramza's jaw clenched tighter, his arm trembling with the urge to release the arrow. Wiegraf's smile widened. "Tell me, Beoulve. If every commoner rose up against the lords who oppress them, do you think any trace of you would remain? Had the populace but the will to insist on equality, your kind would be expunged from Ivalice, root and stem."

"But look at them, Beoulve," Wiegraf continued, gesturing to encompass the room. "They never take their chance. Not now. Not during the 50 Years' War. Not during my rebellion. With or without swords, with or without armies, with or without heroes or leaders, there is no subjugation so extreme they will not wallow in it. And do you know why, Beoulve?"

Wiegraf tapped his temple. "I see through every pair of eyes who ever took up the Aries Stone and called out for power. In every age, the commoner chooses to kneel. He has neither the strength nor the will to risk death for liberty. He has not even the intelligence to demand his rights. The powerful rule from on high, preying on the weak, and the weak welcome their predation, so they do not have to think. They live on in their comfortable routines like cattle destined for the slaughter, no matter how their masters torment them."

"So yes, I detest you, Beoulve. But at least you and your miserable kind have the will to use your power. Not like the rabble mewling and pleading beneath the heels of men they could crush, had they only the desire!" The terrible fire was in Wiegraf's eyes was burning brighter, his whole body glowing with it.

"My sister was a wretch," Wiegraf said. "I was a wretch. But no more. No more trust, no more sacrifice, no more noble examples, no more faith in a people who prefer easy weakness to dangerous strength. I have power, and the will to use it, and I will teach everyone who stands against me what true power is." There was a flash of light, and Wiegraf was in front of him, slashing his sword in a cleaving arc. "Starting with you."

Ramza flung himself to the one side, loosing his arrow, and Wiegraf was darting with him, swinging his sword like a hammer, and when it touched the ground Ramza twisted again, riding the shockwave of the explosion as fallen corpses tumbled around him. The bow dropped from numb fingers as a sword clattered to the ground in front of him, and Ramza somersaulted to his feet with the fallen sword in hand. Wiegraf was in front of him again, sweeping his sword like a scythe, and Ramza thrust his blade forward, trying to pierce his guard-

A casual flick of Wiegraf's sword. A flash of light. The sword in Ramza's hand shattered, the pieces falling around Ramza's feet like metal rain, the vibration of the break still humming in the bones of Ramza's arm. Ramza jerked back, too late: the sword tore a long cut across his palm, and Ramza yelled in pain, stumbling backwards, but there was Wiegraf, lunging in for the kill.

Ramza snapped his hand to the wind rune, and a howling gust exploded from his palm. Wiegraf stumbled backwards two steps, then steadied himself, raising his sword in a shimmering guard. The wind faded, and Wiegraf was still standing.

"You see the difference, Beoulve?" Wiegraf asked. "There was no escape for my sister. There was no escape for me. There will be no escape for you." He laughed, and Ramza saw fire burning at the back of his throat. "That is the fate of the powerless when they stand against the powerful."

"You were never powerless, Wiegraf Folles," Ramza said, his hand shifting to the rune for fire as his blood dripped down onto the stone floor.

"More powerless than you, Beoulve," Wiegraf answered.

"You changed me," Ramza said. "Changed Delita, too."

"What of it?" Wiegraf sneered. "His sister died. So will yours."

Rage swelled in Ramza's stomach, and he loosed a blast of fire. Wiegraf smashed it aside, so it splashed against the stone wall and steamed across the nearby fountains.

"You killed me because I was weak, Beoulve," Wiegraf said. "Now I will return the favor."

Ramza loosed another blast of flame, even as his head swam, and dove forward in the same moment, rolling to his feet with a dead man's sword in either hand. He braced himself, waiting for Wiegraf to cut through the fire. Wiegraf did not disappoint: the dispelled flames swirled around him like a cloak, and each step seemed to carry him ten feet, until he leapt towards Ramza, slashing down with both hands on the hilt of his blade.

Ramza slashed up with his-left hand blade, pivoting on his heel. He released the sword just before Wiegraf's made contact, watching the force of his slash shatter the blade again (the force or his Swordbreaker abilites? Irrelevant), then rebounded off his pivoting step into a spinning cut, slashing with all his strength. Wiegraf's blade crashed against Ramza's, and the two locked eyes.

"Pathetic wretch," Wiegraf sneered. "Just like all the rest."

Magic pulsed, too powerful for Ramza to drain away or blunt: it walloped him like an ocean wave and hurled him back across the room, to slam into the wall and splash gasping down into one of the sluices. A blurred figure flickered in the corner of Ramza's vision: he slashed again, felt the sword shatter in his grasp as a shard of sharp metal dug into his leg. He screamed, half in pain and half in rage, and threw himself to the side as Wiegraf's sword skewered the air where he'd been standing. Cold water drenched into his back.

The cold of it gave Ramza an idea: he found a rune on his glove and shoved it into the water, muttering frantic prayers. The water pulsed around him, then exploded upwards from his hand in a great spearing icicle, in the vague direction from which he'd fallen. He wormed his way backwards, pulled himself to his feet-

A burst of white-hot force knocked him from his feet, flung him back across the room. He stole just a little of its burning strength: enough to blunt the worst of the possible damage, to let him land on his feet as his head spun on his shoulders, his nose filled with the scent of scorched air. The shard of metal in his thigh pulsed with pain.

"All these little tricks," Wiegraf growled, holding his shining blade "All your training. All the nobility of your blood. See what it amounts to?" He took a step over the severed arm in front of him, still clutching a spear. His sword was glowing again.

Ramza's hand snapped to the throwing knife on his waist and spun the blade towards Wiegraf. Wiegraf gave a bellowing laugh and charged forwards, knocking the knife from the air. But in the moment that he smacked the knife away, Ramza lunged past him, somersaulted across the ground and snatched up the spear, with the severed arm still attached to it. Wiegraf was spinning around when Ramza lunged back towards him, thrusting the spear with all his strength-

The spearpoint shattered, as Wiegraf's so-quick blade struck it. Ramza used the force of that blow to spin the shaft around into an uppercut, cracking up into Wiegraf's strong jaw. As Wiegraf staggered back from him, Ramza hurled the haft at him with both hands and cast his eyes wildly about for any other weapons.

Found nothing. He had grabbed every intact weapon from the dead soliders that surrounded him. And Wiegraf Folles was still standing.

Wiegraf raised his burning sword again. Ramza held up his gloved hand, found the rune for fire, and remembered Zeakden. A blazing flare burst from his palm, straight towards Wiegraf, who caught it on the edge of his blade.

"Do you feel it now, Beoulve?" Wiegraf asked, as the flames parted around him. "Do you feel that despair?" Ramza loosed a bolt of lightning, his head swimming with the effort, and Wiegraf caught it on the edge of the blade as easily as he had the flames. "Do you see what comes of throwing your weakness into the face off the powerful, and calling it strength?"

Another rune, a weak gust of wind. Wiegraf slowed for a moment, but did not break his steady advance. "I led so many fools upon that path," Wiegraf continued. "Gustav. My sister." He laughed. "Even myself. Even Delita. Perhaps even you."

Ramza thumbed the last rune, and a smattering of icicles spat from his palm. There was the faintest shudder in the air around Wiegraf, and the icicles skittered and shattered on the stone around him. He was smiling. "But it is folly. And I will waste no more time with it. Once I was nothing. Now I am strong. And you?"

Ramza flicked his thumb back up to the fire rune, and a short streak of flame burst from his hand. The effort of casting it sapped the strength from his legs, and he fell to his knees. When the little fireball hit Wiegraf, his smile widened, and when his clothes caught fire it grew into an avaricious grin, and the flames danced on his clothes. He walked slowly forwards as his clothes caught fully ablaze, the heat of him singing Ramza's skin as he towered over him like a figure straight out of hell.

"You. Are. Weak."

He raised his sword for the killing blow. Ramza stared up mutely. No swords left. No spells either. Wiegraf Folles had been a terror when he was but a man, and the power of demons flowed in his veins now.

And he was right. Ramza was weak

The sword swung down. Ramza watched it fall. It would cut into him, and kill him. It would end his life, as Ramza himself had ended many lives, on many battlefields. As he had ended Gaffgarion's life, catching the old man off guard.

Not the first life he had ended, though. That was Argus, with Fort Zeakden in flames around them, with the shouts and struggles of the last gasp of the Death Corps Rebellion ringing through the snowy air. Wiegraf Folles had led that rebellion. Wiegraf Folles had led Ramza to his first doubts, his first determinations, his first killings. Wiegraf Folles had fought with him to pry Ovelia from the Hokuten's clutches. At so many crossroads in his life, Wiegraf Folles had been waiting, to show him the way.

Ramza had killed him.

Ramza feebly raised his hands, as though in surrender, watching the sword cut down towards him. Maybe Wiegraf was right. Maybe Ramza deserved to die.

Deserved to die. Deserved to die? No one deserved to die. None of the people Ramza had killed had deserved to die. Not the deserters who had ambushed him with Warin, not the Templars he had slain in his rage, not the soldiers or the rebels or the mercenaries Ramza had faced at Gaffgarion's side, not Gaffgarion himself, not Argus Thadolfas, not even Wiegraf Folles. Learning to live with that uncertainty, that guilt, that regret, had defined Ramza for more than two years now. Every death upon his hands was a failure.

But not his failure alone. Warin had chosen to betray him at the first sign of trouble; Gaffgarion had refused to relent, even with his daughter against him; Argus had chosen cruelty over kindness. Ramza wanted (as he had always wanted) to walk a path free of bloodshed, but the choice had never been entirely his. Argus had killed Teta and tried to kill Delita; Gaffgarion had tried to kill his friends; Wiegraf had killed Simon, had held his sister hostage.

And was trying to kill him now.

The hands raised in surrender snapped together in the old cross-block, as Wiegraf's gold-washed blade cut towards him. Time was terribly slow, and in that slowness old memories kept intruding. He remembered all the times he'd used this exact move: he remembered the training field in Gariland, blocking Delita's blunted training sword to end his winning streak. Wiegraf's was no training sword, but Ramza's were no amateur's greaves: he had etched careful runes into the iron lining, and had spent a long time training and thinking and planning for when he might need them again.

But he had never faced an opponent like Wiegraf. He had never faced a man of such power, much less fueled by a demon's strength. All the warding magics he'd concocted could not protect them. All his Vampire Knight skills could not save him.

He heard Lavian and Alicia in his head. He heard Rafa and Malak.. He heard Daravon, and Beowulf. He heard Mustadio and Agrias. And, louder than any, he heard Alma and Radia.

Killing was a failure, but no more so than dying, and Ramza could not afford to die here.

Wiegraf's sword cut down, with all his demon strength. And when Ramza felt the faintest shift in pressure, as the edge of the blade touched his iron greaves, he willed, and poured magic into his hands, fumbling for the feeling of Wiegraf's field, willing his own to match it, to flash with the same strength, to shine like a Mage Knight's Burst Blade.

No. Not like a blade, but like a shield.

A flash of terrible light. Ramza stared at Wiegraf. Wiegraf stared at him. His burning blade pressed down upon Ramza's crossed arms, unmoving. And the faintest look of shock passed across Wiegraf's face.

Ramza twisted, stealing at the very edges of Wiegraf's terrible magic, healing the worst of his wounds, dispelling the worst of his exhaustion. Wiegraf, fast and lethal, saw his mistake, and tried to pull away: Ramza, fast and lethal, snapped his hands together at the base of the blade, just beneath the crossguard. He came up, still twisting, and kicked both feet together against Wiegraf's armored chest. For a moment (just a moment), Wiegraf was off-balance. For a moment (just a moment) his grip slackened upon his sword. For a moment (just a moment) his guard was down.

And in that same jumping, twisting, kick, Ramza pulled at the hilt of Wiegraf's marvelous blade. Wiegraf lost his grip, stumbling back a single step, and Ramza landed clumsily upon his feet, the stolen blade in his hands, and with all his strength he thrust the goldwashed blade forwards, driving it straight through Wiegraf's armor and into his stomach.

The hung there like that for a moment. Wiegraf's disbelieving eyes looked at the sword in his belly, then drifted back up to Ramza. Ramza looked steadily back at the man he'd always admired. At the man he'd killed twice.

"I never thought you were weak," Ramza whispered. "The moment I met you, I...I thought you were the strongest person I'd ever known."

Wiegraf blinked slowly. He staggered backwards, slid himself off of his blade, his hands fumbling at the wound in his stomach, the flames upon his clothes still flickering. He raised his bloodstained hands, and looked between them and Ramza. He was smiling.

"Not weak," he admitted.

And then he ignited.

Fire, underlaid by a blue glow, suffused his being. The outlines of his form rippled, swelled, changed. Curling horns unfurled from his head: the immolating flames swirled around two swelling arms that split in half. From each boulder-like shoulder now sprouted two arms; an inner pair (one red as blood, one blue as sapphire) and an outer pair (gargantuan, muscular, tipped with golden claws). Fire wreathed his naked figure, and black eyes glared with stunning force from his animal face.

"Not weak," Belias growled, and his simple speech was outlined by flame, embers sparking around him so Ramza felt his skin tighten and his eyes water as though he was staring into a working forge. "But not strong enough."

Ramza, at his limit, shifted his stance so that the golden blade was held en guarde before him. He locked eyes with the demon in front of him, and said, "Cuchulainn thought the same thing. I'm still here."

Belias laughed, and the laughter sparked the same as his words. "Worthy words, Beoulve." The blue glow brightened. "PROVE THEM!" he howled, and the howl became an azure beam of scouring force, ripping towards him.