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The Tale of Beowulf: Templar

The first hints of dawn were just beginning to brighten the light coming in from the window to his cell. Beowulf's knees ached, but he kept himself still. His eyes were fixed on the simple tapestry hanging on the wall in front of him: the twelve Zodiac symbols orbiting the burnished glory of Virgo. But his eyes saw beyond the cell where he kept his vigil: they saw back to a little cave outside of Lionel, where he had finally heard the fate that had befallen his friends at Fort Zeakden.

Teta, dead at Argus' hand and Zalbaag's order. Delita, nearly killed by Argus' arrows and Zeakden's flames, before Wiegraf had pulled him from the inferno. Ramza, who had broken his pledge to fight without killing by driving his sword through Argus' back.

"And now you're both Templars?" Beowulf asked.

"Officially?" Wiegraf shook his head. "No. Unofficially..."

"We'll do work fro the Templars," Delita said. "And help them achieve their goals."

Beowulf frowned. "What goals?"

Delit and Wiegraf exchanged wary looks. Finally, Delita answered: "A better world."

A better world. But what exactly did that mean? What was wrong with the world, and how did the Church intend to fix it? Ask any ordinary member of the faith, and they'd repeat some nonsense about "Spreading the teachings of the Saint." But Beowulf had never understood what that meant: not as a child, not as a cadet, and not even as a Templar trainee, keeping his vigil. His knees ached, as he studied the tapestry hanging in front of him. He was supposed to be praying, but praying had never made much sense to Beowulf. He was either strong enough to realize his goals, or he wasn't.

Wiegraf and Delita were strong enough to realize their goals. But neither of them was sure those goals should be realized. Or rather: they weren't sure about what they had to do to get there.

"You're supposed to start rebellions?" Beowulf demanded, outraged.

Wiegraf nodded. He wasn't looking at Beowulf, instead stroking the golden neck of his chocobo. "To prepare the kingdom for the guidance of the Church."

"How does that make you any better than Gustav?" Beowulf asked.

Wiegraf's head jerked up. His face was very strong: there was guilt, shock, and hurt in his blue eyes...and also a hint of amusement. "I've asked myself the same question."

Delita rested a hand on Wiegraf's shoulder, and looked back at Beowulf. "In means?" Delita asked. "We may end up no better than Gustav." He squeezed Wiegraf's shoulder. "Hopefully, our ends will be better." He paused, smiled grimly. "Pun intended."

Beowulf frowned. "Better how?"

Delita started to answer, but Wiegraf put his own hand on Delita's, and Delita fell silent. Wiegraf stepped forward. "When we fought at Fovoham," Wiegraf whispered. "I was cruel. My friends...my sister..." He shook his head. "You were a child, fighting for a noble cause. Your means were flawed, but...you wanted to save Teta."

Behind him, Delita closed his eyes, and lifted his hand to the old burn on his cheek. No one spoke for a little while.

"We may have to do monstrous things," Wiegraf said. "As Gustav did. But in the end, Gustav only fought for himself." He locked eyes with Beowulf. "We won't lose sight of our goal. A better world, where the Death Corps need never exist, because all people are treated fair, regardless of their birth. A world where the powerful may no longer bathe our country in an ocean of blood, just to slake their mad ambitions." His eyes had grown firmer with every word. "If we must spill a little more blood to see that world realized, so be it." He reached to a pouch hanging form his waist, and pulled out a blue Stone that glowed with liquid light. The Aries symbol was emblazoned upon its front.

Saint Above, but Wiegraf Folles was still so god damn daunting. The strength of his arm and the skill of his sword had been impressive from their first furious battle in the Zeklaus Desert. The force of his will was more impressive still. Beowulf stared at the tapestry in front of him, and still did not know where Wiegraf got his strength.

The door behind him creaked open. "Beowulf Daravon," came Bremondt's voice. "Have you completed your vigil?"

Beowulf nodded. "I have."

"Do you know why we ask these vigils of our Templars?"

"To honor the Saint, who spent many a night searching his soul for guidance on how best to serve God's will."

"And in your long night of the soul, what truth have you discovered?"

Beowulf thought for a moment. He looked at the tapestry in front of him, with its thirteen Zodaic signs. And he looked past the tapestry, back to that sunset at Lionel, and the Zodiac Stone in Wiegraf's hand.

"They're going to bring back the Braves?" Beowulf asked.

"They've started gathering the Stones," Delita said. "And they're looking for the right people to wield'em." He clapped Wiegraf on the shoulder again. "Wiegraf was an obvious choice. A hero who rebelled for the people, betrayed by the same greedy tyrants they're going to bring down?"

Wiegraf flushed and looked away. "You do me too much credit.

"The Confessor and the Knight-Commander make two more," Delita continued. "Cardinal Delacroix, Marquis Elmdor...oh, and Bremondt, too, yes?" He shot a questioning look at Alister.

Alister shrugged. "Reis would know better than I."

Beowulf whirled around. "Reis knows about this?"

"They've got big plans for your girlfriend, Beowulf," Alister grunted. "Dragoners are a rare breed." He paused thoughtfully. "Of course, so are Silencers."

Beowulf stared at Alister. He stared at Wiegraf. He stared at Delita. "You're not...you don't think I could be..."

"Now?" Delita shook his head. "But who knows what the future holds?" He smiled. "Beowulf Daravon, Zodiac Brave and Templar of the Church...it does have a nice ring to it."

The new Braves, united under the auspices of the Saint's appointed Church in order to fix a broken kingdom, and a broken world. There was a story worth the telling. There was a legend that would never be forgotten, as the Brave Stories never were.

"But..." Beowulf whispered, looking around against at these three men who meant so much to him. The foe who had showed him his cruelty and weakness. The mentor who had helped him to fix it. The friend he had feared dead. "I don't...I don't deserve it."

He had been right in Lionel. He was still right now, his knees aching from his vigil as dawn light trickled into his cell. "I am unworthy of the honor," Beowulf said, still staring at the tapestry. "I cannot live up to the ideals of the Saint, or the Church that hopes to serve him."

Silence hung in the room, as it had hung in Lionel. By the little cave, it was Wiegraf who broke the silence. "You killed good men and women," Wiegraf said softly. "And I allowed good men and women to be killed." He put a hand on Beowulf's shoulder. "We cannot bring back the dead. All we can do is hope to never repeat our mistakes..." His eyes gleamed with unshed tears. "And, perhaps...to make a world where those mistakes can never be made again."

For that reason had Beowulf fought to be a Templar. To find some purpose, some new strength and skill, both to save the people he loved and spare the weak he might one day fight. To keep striving after the heroism he had longed for all his life.

He was not a godly man. He did not know whether the Saint had been God's appointed representative to the people of the world, whose mistreatment had condemned them to centuries of suffering until the Glabados Church could reform them. But he did believe in making amends for his mistakes, and making the world a better place. And people he loved and admired were willing to fight for that Church, to build its better world. People like Wiegraf. People like Delita. People like Reis.

"I cannot live up to those ideals," Beowulf said again, staring at the tapestry and its Zodiac signs. "But I can try to. And every time I fail, I will learn from that failure. I will hope to redeem myself, as the Church hopes to redeem the world. If you are willing to have a man like me."

Silence in the room again. Beowulf remained on his knees, looking forward. He wasn't sure if he believed in God, or the Saint. But he believed in making a better world.

"You entered this cell as a man alone," the Archbishop said. "You will never be alone again. You are one of the faithful, an earnest soldier in the only division of heaven's army that walks upon the earth, united in brotherhood with every other true believer who has fought to see Ajora's world realized. Rise, my son."

Beowulf rose, and turned to face the Archbishop. He was clad in the immaculate red robes of his office, with the Zodiac signs emblazoned on a white-and-gold that hung over his shoulders. He held a bundle of white-and-gold cloth in his hands, which he unrolled with a fluid snap of his wrists to reveal the symbol of the Templars: the Zodiac signs in orbit around an upthrust sword. "You are Beowulf Daravon," Bremondt said, and extended the cloak to Beowulf. "Knight Templar of the Glabados Church."

Beowulf reached out, and took the cloak in his hands. Slowly, carefully, and deliberately, Beowulf spun it around, and fasted it beneath his neck.

"I told you once that you could not be a Templar," Bremondt said, and smiled. "I have never been more glad to be wrong."

Beowulf smiled at Bremondt, and found he meant it. He had joined the Templars in desperation, hoping to find the purpose he had lost in the foothills of Fovoham. He had found that purpose, and more besides. Whether it was God's will or not, he was fighting alongside people he loved, for a cause he believed in. Perhaps he would become a legend one day, after all. But even if he didn't, he felt, for the first time in a year, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.