(Updating every two weeks through May)

The Tale of Beowulf: Reunion

Within a year, no Templar could stand against him.

Swordbreakers' magic would rebound against them, and crack their own blades. Try to use the Bursting Blade, and it would explode against you, and knock you off your feet. He cut through fire like silk, parted lightning like water. None of his fellow trainees could match him. None of the Templars he fought could hold him back.

None of it was ever good enough for Alister. "Sloppy!" he'd shout, as Beowulf cut his way through a rush of fire. "Too slow!" as Beowulf parried two rival swordsman at once, and turned their breaking magic back into so their swords so they shattered in their grasps. A Mage Knight ignited a titanic burst of white fire, and Beowulf spun through it like a dervish: "Try that on the battlefield and you'll die!"

Always, a moment of resentment: as good as Beowulf was, he was never good enough. And always, right after the resentment, came the resolve: if he was not good enough yet, he would be one day.

He had been frantic at Gariland: he had been frenzied before Alister had come. He was fervent now: focused, honed, and polished by the only mentor besides his father whose advice had ever seemed worth a damn.

He defeated trainee, after trainee, after trainee. Not longer after, he defeated Templar, after Templar, after Templar. And after every victory, he would take his ever-unsatisfied mentor's advice, and sharpen his skills.

So he found himself running through the foothills near Lionel Castle, cutting and slashing at imaginary enemies, because Alister had admonished his footwork and his fluidity in fighting multiple combatants, and Beowulf would master that skill, as he had mastered all others. As he sprinted up another hill, spinning away from a phantom axeman's beheading blow, he found Alister waiting for him at the hill's crest

"Too straight up the hill," Alister grunted. "Any bowman worth their salt would make short work of you. Hell, a gunman with a single pistol could end you where you stand. You've got to make your path less predictable."

Beowulf sheathed his training swords and wiped the sweat from his brow. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Good." Alister jerked his head. "An old friend wants to see you."

Alister set off at an easy trot, and Beowulf followed behind, keeping his breathing easy as Alister had taught him: deep slow breaths through the nose, so he wouldn't sound winded even if he were on the edge of collapse. Up and down over the rolling hills they ran, until they wound their way down into a dry creekbed that wove back into the lea between two hills. The underside of one hill gave way to a shallow cave, where two hooded men stood talking before a golden-feathered chocobo.

And when Beowulf saw the man in front, he sprinted past Alister, and slashed a training sword straight for his throat.

The hooded man drew his sword just as quick: the shimmering weight of the Bursting Blade flashed around his gold-bladed sword. It flickered into fire, so hot and fierce that Beowulf almost flinched backwards, but then he cursed himself for a coward and flexed his magic, found the weak points in the burst and turned them on themselves, so that instead the white fire flashed in a constellation of sparks around them, and a burst of hot wind rustled the glass to all sides and blew back Wiegraf's hood.

Wiegraf. Golden-haired, as fierce and powerful as he'd seemed in Dorter, and in Fovoham. The man who had killed poor, sweet, ever-eager Violet. The man who had laid Beowulf's own weakness bare.

Clang clang clang clang clang! Five blows within a second, Beowulf striking with all the strength of his arms and Wiegraf parrying with dizzying speed. But his blade was not so heavy, his magic not so fierce, Beowulf was stronger than he'd been a year ago, he could do this, he could win, he could-

Only a few seconds had passed since Beowulf had seen Wiegraf Folles. Only a few seconds had passed since their first burst of conflict, and the hot wind that had knocked off Wiegraf's hood. It had knocked off his companion's hood, as well. His sword remained sheathed at his side: his dark eyes were heavy, and one cheek twisted by a freshly-healed burn. But the clay-red hair was unmistakable, as was the slight, sardonic smile.

Beowulf's rage and determination were gone as quickly as they had come. Shock had washed away all emotion. "Delita?"

"You're looking well, Beo-" Delita began, and was choked off in an oof of air as Beowulf embraced him, the training swords clattering to the ground behind him. There were tears in Beowulf's eyes, and a bright, hot, disbelieving joy in his heart.

"You're as energetic as ever," Wiegraf grunted.

Beowulf released his friend, and looked back at the older warrior. The wound in his chest ached.

"You know him?" Beowulf asked, looking up the hill to where Alister stood with arms folded. He appeared to have barely moved throughout the drama of the last minute.

"We fought together at Limberry," Alister said, nodding towards Wiegraf. "But you'll recall, I never said whose old friend we were coming to meet."

Beowulf nodded, and looked back to Wiegraf. "I'm sorry."

Wiegraf blinked. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Beowulf said again. "Everything you said outside the windmill..." He shook his head. "You were right. I was acting like...like you and yours weren't...like you were just characters, in my story."

Wiegraf nodded. The lines on his face seemed carved in stone, but there was guilt in his blue eyes. "You did. But you also fought to rescue a woman who never should have..." He trailed off. "It was war."

Right. He would remember that the next time he took to a battlefield. He would make sure to kill only when he had no other choice. To be a better man. Like...

The strangeness of the moment struck him all at once. Here was Wiegraf, who had cut him open when last they fought, and laid all his pretensions bare. Here was Delita, who he had thought dead. And now the uneasy question: where was Ramza? Where was Teta?

He looked back to Delita, with questions in his eyes. When he saw the pain in Delita's gaze, he already had his answer. He hadn't had much hope that she had lived, but...

"What happened?" Beowulf asked.

And Delita told him.