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Chapter 102: No Less Than You

For all the battlefields Ramza had walked these last few years, he was not sure he had ever seen so many dead.

Everywhere he went, there were corpses. The courtyard was littered with them—bodies slashed, stabbed, burned, frozen, smashed, and shattered. The halls of Riovanes Castle were likewise sown with them: lying in pools of their blood, or blackened to husks against the walls and floor, or scattered in pieces as though by a wrathful child tearing apart flimsy dolls.

Rafa and Malak recognized many faces among the dead. Ramza recognized only one.

He stood over Izlude's body. He could recognize the boy, even with the top of his head crushed into a pulp of blood and bone. His mouth was a silent o of eternal surprise.

"You did this," Ramza whispered. "And you died for it."

The weight of the world felt like it was pressing down upon Ramza's shoulders. He stared at the dead boy who had been his enemy, and thought of all the other dead men and women he'd seen these last three years. This boy had been his enemy, as so many of the other dead had been. And this boy had been decent, as so many of the other dead had been.

"You didn't deserve this," Ramza said, but he wasn't just speaking to Izlude. The figure in front of him seemed layered with all the dead of his life. Simon, thinking for a moment that any ounce of Balbanes lived inside of Ramza. Erik Fulke, who he had never met, and who had been killed because he did not want to murder innocent men. Miluda Folles, with hate upon her lips. Teta, tumbling through the air like a fallen bird. Argus Thadolfas, his blood spilling into the snow. Gaffgarion, slumped against a wall. Warin, collapsed at Olan's feet. The nameless, desperate Death Corps soldier who had died upon Argus' arrow, when Ramza and his friends had set out for Igros.

And Wiegraf Folles, who he'd killed thrice.

"You didn't deserve this," he said again, and closed his eyes, and prayed that someone, somewhere, would see these souls safely to wherever souls go when there time on Earth is done.

He stripped Izlude's corpse, then. He was wearing good armor and better gauntlets, and Ramza had not survived so long by being precious with the dead.

He returned to the spacious yard at the front of the building, where this morning (hours ago) Malak had been waiting in ambush for Ramza and Rafa. Now the place was glazed in the light of the nearly full moon far above, and Rafa and Malak were side by side, panting as they dug at the dirt beneath a little circle of trees on the yard's far side. The other members of the Hand lay outside the circle of trees, their broken bodies hidden beneath a bloodstained sheet. Agrias dug at their side.

Ramza stared at them for a long time. He remembered the sun setting over Riovanes' rooftop, and the blue glow of the Stone in Rafa's hand. In that glow, he had seen echoes of the liquid light that had filled the chapel at Orbonne, when Wiegraf had become a Lucavi. A flash of fear had cut through his exhaustion, and he had opened his mouth to shout a warning-

Blue light had ignited, as bright and bounteous as the morning sky, and Ramza's words died in his throat. There was something of the Lucavi's darkness in this light: he felt it in him like a Healer's touch, easing the worst of his pain and exhaustion. Briefly, so briefly that he might have imagined it, he thought he glimpsed that terrible, sickly radiance again, that crimson nightmare that he'd seen twice now (in Wiegraf and the Marquis' disappearance from the world). But shrouded as he was in the blue light, that place so longer seemed so awful. He felt like he was standing in a tall place, staring at something on the distant horizon.

When the light faded, Malak was moving. And the world was even stranger than Ramza knew.

"No sign of her?" Ramza asked, striding past the remodeled war caravan his friends had stolen from the Templars at Orbonne.

Malak stopped digging, and wiped an arm across his sweaty brow. His eyes looked faintly glazed. "None." He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It's not..." Ramza could not finish his sentence. It was Malak's fault. He had taken his sister, and kept her captive in this place. But he had paid a high enough price for that choice. Had died for it, in fact.

"What was it?" Ramza asked. "That place?" Malak had told them a little of his experience, as the sun had set on Riovanes, and they tried to understand how the same Stones that made demons could bring a boy back from the dead.

Malak shook his head. "I don't know." He opened his eyes, and looked at the bodies of his friends. "But they were there. And they...they helped me..."

Ramza stepped forwards, and wordlessly took Malak's shovel from him, to take his own turn digging. Malak started to shake his head, but then Rafa touched his shoulder, and the two stepped out of the hole they'd dug, and Ramza set to work.

"You don't have to do this," Ramza muttered to Agrias.

"We have a moment," Agrias said. "And whatever their crimes, they deserve to rest in peace."

"That's not what I-"

"If you are trying to tell me we did not have to come for you," Agrias said. "Then I would suggest you hold your tongue." There was something almost like laughter in her voice. "You marched knowingly into a trap to save my comrades and the Princess. Did you imagine I would let you walk to your own death?"

Ramza did not know what to say, so he said nothing, and kept digging.

Alicia and Lavian emerged briefly, and Agrias climbed out of the hole to speak with them. A moment later, and Rafa hopped back into the hole with him, taking Agrias' shovel as the others strode back to the castle, with Malak in the lead.

"They don't know what to make of some of our gear," Rafa explained, to Ramza's questioning look. "Malak's going to help them sort everything."

Ramza nodded. "Should you be digging?"

Rafa shrugged. "The Stone healed me a bit, and Lavian got the rest. 'Sides, I've had worse."

Her tone was horribly matter-of-fact. Ramza simply nodded, and started to dig a moment later. He stopped again when he noticed Rafa watching him from the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Thank you."

Ramza shook his head. "You don't owe me anything."

"I do." Rafa's voice was as firm as her dark eyes. "I wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for you."

"You saved me first."

Rafa thought for a moment, nodded. "Guess I did. Doesn't make me any less grateful." She started digging again. "I...wish I could have...saved them." Now her voice was a little tight. "I wish..." She trailed off, took a deep breath. "But I couldn't. And the people I could save, I did." She looked back up at him. There were tears tracking down her face, but her eyes were just as firm as before.

They locked eyes for a few moment. Then they looked away, and started digging again.

"-I would have been fine."

Ramza looked up as Beowulf and Radia strode out of the main doors of Riovanes, with armfuls of stuff to put in the caravan.

"He had you pinned!"

"I've survived worse."

"Then a sword through your throat?"

"Well, yeah. What am I, a weakling?" There was laughter at the edge of Radia's voice.

"Look, there's no shame in being saved."

"I'm not ashamed." They were striding towards Rafa and Ramza now. "Though I am a bit surprised he managed to slip past you."

"I was trying to flank them!"

"Still."

They reached the edge of the half-dug graves. Beowulf hopped down at once, prying the shovel out of Ramza's hand. "What-" Ramza started, but Beowulf shoved him towards the edge of the hole, and Ramza looked up to see Radia, offering a hand to pull him out of the grave.

"So you're bullet-proof?" Beowulf asked.

"Not as much as I thought, I guess," Rafa answered.

"I've been there."

"Have you?"

Radia pulled him up, and the two strolled away from the others, to stand next to the caravan. They looked at each other for a long time. In spite of his fear and his exhaustion, Ramza drank the sight of her in hungrily: bruised, worn, and dirty as she was, she was still one of the most beautiful women Ramza had ever seen, and the moonlight painted her the way it had on the hills of Lionel almost a year ago.

"You okay?" she asked.

Ramza almost laughed, but couldn't quite manage it. "I think I should be asking you that."

"I'm not the one who stormed a castle to try and fight an army by himself."

"I didn't..." Ramza trailed off and shook his head. "What are you doing here, Radia?'

She offered him a mock-pout. "Not happy to see me?"

"I wouldn't be alive right now if you weren't here."

She smiled. "Neither would I."

She was looking at him. Really looking him. He'd been so afraid she wouldn't look at him like that again.

"I thought I was supposed to come back to you?" he asked.

"You were," Radia said. "I mean, it looks like you would've had some trouble getting back..." She looked around the courtyard. They'd moved some of the bodies out of the way, but there wasn't much they could do. There were simply too many corpses for their little band to take care of.

"Radia..."

She smiled. "Agrias was furious that you'd left. So was Mus, though he didn't say anything. Daravon managed to calm everyone down, and I was still recovering, and then..." She nodded towards Beowulf, back in the circle of trees. "Then he showed up. He was looking for you. We told him where you'd gone, and...and he told us there'd been a message sent to the Templars, asking them to come to Riovanes."

Ramza stared at her. "And you came?"

"And we came." She reached out, and took his hand in hers. "Are you okay?"

Ramza shook his head. "No." He hesitated. "Are you?"

She shook her head in turn. "Nah." She squeezed his hand. "But I'm glad you're alive."

Nearby, there was the unmistakable kweh of a chocobo's call, followed almost immediately by Mustadio's flustered voice crying out, "Easy! Easy!"

Ramza and Radia both turned: Mustadio was being dragged across the yard by a rambunctious, golden-feathered chocobo, warbling excitedly as it pulled him forwards.

"Is that-" Radia said, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Boco!" Beowulf shouted, dropping his shovel and leaping out of the grave. "Boco, is that you?"

The golden-feathered voice warbled again, eyes bright. Radia and Beowulf were both running towards the bird, and Mustadio gave up and let him go, so the chocobo ran to meet them. He stopped a few paces short, held himself up carefully for inspection. There were scattered scorch marks across his chest, neck, and beak, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear.

"Who's this fellow?" Ramza asked, following along at a more leisurely pace.

"You don't recognize him?" Radia asked, patting the bird's neck affectionately. "He got you across the bridge at the Falls."

"At the..." Ramza trailed off as the cluttered, mad memories of Zirekile Falls came back to him. "This is Wiegraf's bird?"

At Wiegraf's name, the bird straightened up attentively, and cast its head from side to side as though looking for someone. Ramza hesitated a moment, then darted back to the caravan and drew out the blue Aries Stone inside, as well as the golden blade he'd taken from Wiegraf. The bird gave another high kweh as soon as Ramza pulled them from the caravan and trotted over, nuzzling the hilt of the sword and the blue stone.

"We don't think chocobo can turn into Lucavi, do we?" Beowulf muttered out of the side of his mouth. "I mean, it might be kind of funny-"

"I'm sorry," Ramza said, though he felt a little silly talking to the bird as though it were a person. "He didn't make it."

The bird looked up briefly, its orange eyes unreadable. Ramza set both sword and Stone down on the ground, and the chocobo hunched protectively over both, as though they were a clutch of eggs.

"How do you know Boco?" Radia asked.

"Wiegraf put in a good word for me when I wanted to join the Templars."

"That career choice is obviously going well for you."

"Almost as well as fighting for the Death Corps went for you."

"Wiegraf's bird, huh?" Mustadio muttered, as Ramza approached him.

"Apparently," Ramza said. Hard to remember, he'd been a frantic, desperate mess the last time he'd seen the chocobo, but the longer he looked the more familiar the bird seemed. He'd seen him before: not just at Zirekile, but in the Fovoham Plains to the south, when they had raced after Teta.

And here they were again, racing after a stolen sister. Ramza almost laughed.

"Where'd you find him?" Ramza asked.

"Stables," Mustadio answered. "Looks like he might have knocked the stablemaster out."

"Really?"

"I mean, the stablemaster was unconscious, not dead, and he's got some ugly scratches on his back..." Mustadio nodded to the chocobo's taloned feet.

"You're telling me the chocobo attempted a jailbreak?"

"Had to break down the door. My guess is that the stablemaster was hiding from..." Mustadio trailed off, and gestured at the carnage around them. "And our feathered friend sought some revenge."

Ramza nodded, but he wasn't looking at Mustadio. He was looking at the broken battleground around them. The attack made by Wiegraf, and the Marquis, and the others who'd supported them. The attack that had taken Alma. The attack that could have killed Ramza, or any of his friends.

"Mus-" Ramza started.

"Please don't."

Ramza looked back at his friend. He had the gun he'd claimed from Riovanes' rooftop in a makeshift sling under one arm, and his own pistol properly holstered at his side. He was smiling at Ramza. "You threw yourself into a fight to save me when you didn't even know who I was," Mustadio said. "You marched into danger to help me save my father. You almost died for us. Did you think we would do any less for you?"

Ramza managed to smile. "Agrias said something similar."

"She's smart. You should listen to her." A moment later, and the wind was knocked out of Ramza as Mustadio embraced him, hugging him so tight Ramza could barely draw breath. "Don't you dare leave us behind again," he whispered into Ramza's ear, with tears in his voice.

Ramza closed his eyes against his own tears. "I won't."

His friends, who he'd left behind to try and keep them safe. His friends, who had taken the same dangerous journey he had across wartorn Ivalice, to save him from danger.

There were so many dead in Riovanes, and so many dead along the paths of Ramza's life, and it seemed clear to him now that, whatever skill Ramza had, he was only alive now because of the quality of the people who cared about him. He had failed to save so many: had been saved from his own failures so often. And looking around him now, as Mustadio let him go and Alicia, Lavian, and Malak emerged from the castle with fresh bundles of supplies and gear, he could admit that his life was not one long string of failures. He was surrounded by the people he'd fought for. By the people who'd saved him. By the people he'd saved.

They gathered around the makeshift grave of those who had not been so lucky, and helped Rafa and Malak lower their friends down into the dirt. Mustadio and Ramza shoveled dirt over the sheet-wrapped bodies as Alicia, with Rafa and Malak's instructions, carved their epitaph into a marble slab they'd found.

Here Lies The Hand of Barinten

Loyal Soldiers and Firm Friends

Their Courage Will Not Be Seen Again

Berkeley of Many Faces Clara Belle Clarice Miller

With Mustadio's help, they set the makeshift headstone, and stood in a silent circle around the fresh-dug grave.

"Take us with you."

Ramza looked up. Malak was beside his sister, hand in hers, the moonlight shining in the tear tracks on his cheeks.

"I know I don't deserve to-" Malak began.

"You died for your sins," Ramza replied. "I think you've paid as high a price to atone as anyone could." He looked at the others. "Any objections?"

His friends shook their heads. Malak looked like he was about to speak, but instead nodded, and shut his eyes tight. Rafa hugged him, and shot Ramza a grateful look over the top of his shaking head.

Ramza nodded back at her, and looked around his friends again. His hand felt for his sister's ring, secure in a pouch on his waist. "You all heard what the Marquis said? About Alma?" A scattering of nods, and Ramza continued, "The Gospel's not too far from here," Ramza said. "We get that back. And then we..." He took a deep breath, fighting against his doubts, remembering what his friends had said, over and over again. "If you will stand with me again...I need your help."

"Ramza." Beowulf's voice was thin and shaky: he had sounded much younger than usual.

Ramza looked at him. "Beowulf?"

Beowulf nodded. "I...yes, I...I came to help, I was worried about you, I..." He took a deep breath. "But that's...not the only reason I'm here." There was a bewildering hangdog look to him, as though he were embarrassed or ashamed. "I...I would have come anyways, you know, I would have..."

"Beowulf," Ramza said. He faced his old friend, and felt a peculiar sense of vertigo. He remembered when Beowulf Daravon, for all his prowess, had been a pimple-faced boy dreaming of bigger things. The lean, powerful man before him did not look like that boy...except for the eyes. In those glistening, helpless eyes, Ramza remembered saw the boy, still alive, in spite of everything. "You've saved me more than once."

Beowulf laughed weakly. "I could say the same of you, Ramza."

Ramza almost laughed (how many times did his friends intend to remind him of that?) but could not quite manage it in the face of Beowulf's uncertainty. He wanted to be there for his friend, as his friend had been there for him.

"So don't be afraid," Ramza said. "What do you need?"

Beowulf's mouth twisted. He closed his eyes. "Help me," he whispered.

"Help you?"

Beowulf nodded. "Help me save Reis."

I am not the historian I once was, and I cannot promise you the history you deserve. What paltry courage I once had is shaken by the hardship of the last few years. My heart is heavy, and fragile, and my confidence diminished.

Perhaps I put too much of my own fear inside Ramza Beoulve, but Olan Durai's writings point to a man with questions more severe than mine, and a heart with much heavier burdens to bear. I write in the realm of speculation more than ever, soldiering into the unknown...but then, so did Ramza Beoulve, when he set out alone for Riovanes, not knowing what the future held for him. And so did his friends, who raced together to his side, to aid the man who had offered so much aid to them.

I am not the historian I once was. I am not the man I once was. But for all my doubts, I can still think of no better calling than my search for truth. And, as I have said from the beginning, no one who searches for truth searches alone.

Once I asked you if you would search for that truth with me. Now I ask you, not as a knowledgeable guide illuminating the path to the less-knowledgeable, but as a fellow traveler upon an unknown road, uncertain what lies at the journey's end, but no less determined to walk this path to its conclusion, wherever it may takes us.

Please, my faithful comrades. Join me, and stay with me, and let us help one another as we search for the truth.

-Alazlam Durai