(Publishing one chapter a week until the end of Part 5)

The Tale of Beowulf: Ramza

Beowulf Daravon was nothing but a sword.

That was what he told himself, over and over, as he went from one corner of Ivalice to another, meeting with this pirate, this merchant, this librarian, this farmer. Some were friends of Val's, and some were friend's of Delita's, and some were people with coin to hire a talented mercenary, and some were being used (even if they didn't know it). But if they needed Beowulf, it was because they had enemies that needed to die.

Beowulf Daravon was nothing but a sword. He was drawn when he was needed, and cut what he was told to cut. It helped assuage one small part of his guilt: the guilt over cutting down enemies that he knew nothing of.

But it could do nothing for the other part of his guilt. The guilt over the simple fact that a sword should not enjoy its work the way Beowulf enjoyed his.

He had always loved the thrill of sparring, but when he had cut down his first opponents on the Mandalia Plains he had found that even that joy paled before the ecstasy of life-or-death combat. In those days, child that he'd been, he had thought himself invincible, cloaked in the legend he would one day wear. Wiegraf had dispelled those illusions, but the past years of training and fighting had whetted his edge. He knew exactly how dangerous the world was. And over and over again, he proved he was equal to it, and reveled in the bloodshed.

So he would get word from Delita and his allies, and he would set out to do as he'd been asked. To attack a squad of Templars and lead them on a merry chase through Bervenia's crowded nest of alleys, a decoy for their heretic friends making their unseen escape: to temporarily join this band of bandits in Limberry, help them raid a Church convoy laden with tithes and tribute, and then hijack the most treasure-laden caravan laden from both, so he could leave it for Faris near the Bethla Wastes: to devastate a promising mercenary company, ripping through their leaders with his swords in hand, so that Viscount Blanche grew more desperate with the uprising in his land.

"You killed them all?" Faris repeated, not long after this last assignment.

Beowulf shrugged. "Not sure. Wasn't exactly keeping count." He sipped at his beer.

"We only asked you to take out their captains," Val pointed out.

"I'm an overachiever." He set his drink down. "My next job's in Goug?"

Val shook her head. "Not sure. Delita sent word to meet us here." She stretched. "Apparently I'm supposed to pretend to be a member of the Black Sheep, or something..."

It was another few hours before they saw Delita, wild-eyed and pale. He hurried past them without looking at them: one by one, they left through the front, and hurried around back. He was a shadow, darting down the alley: they hurried after him, and found him unlocking a little shack several zigzags later, buried between refuse and shadows.

"It's bad," Delita said, without looking at them. Sweat plastered his lank red hair to his forehead. "Maybe the worst possible scenario." He looked up. "Faris, those weapons I promised you...I need to hold onto them."

Faris glowered at him. "What for?"

He shook his head, and pushed open the door. "They're making their move. They're going to take the Princess Ovelia." He looked at Beowulf. "And they're going to kill Ramza."

Into his joyous, lethal fog, there came real fear. Ramza? Ramza, kind and capable, who had dreamed he might win battles without bloodshed? Ramza, one of his first friends? He would not permit it.

So another mission, different than most: a whirlwind voyage to Goug, to save a friend he had not seen in years. As he hurried down a rotting dock in Goug, he was greeted by a rugged-faced man in a red scarf. "You're Daravon?" he grunted.

"You're Barich?" Beowulf asked.

Barich nodded. "Not sure exactly how this thing's gonna play out," Barich said. "Baerd's men are gonna be shadowing me, too, so you'll have to step extra quick if you want to save everyone. I'll try and keep the bloodshed to a minimum, signal you when the moment's right."

Beowulf nodded, and let Barich get nearly a full street's length ahead before he began ambling after him. He saw Ramza only from a distance, longer of hair and broader of shoulder, when he and a straw-blonde man stepped into a dingy bar. He saw the ambush, as Baerd and his men materialized around them, all of them blind to Beowulf watching them from a rooftop across the way. And in the hissing drizzle, he saw Baerd step out of a warehouse in a dingy section of town, and raise his gun to the sky to signal Beowulf.

Beowulf hurtled inside, blades drawn, ready to fight. Even through the thunder and the rain, he heard muffled sounds of struggle, and alarmed shouts. As he stepped through the doorway, a massive thumph filled the air.

He saw the source of it: the broken piece of anvil that had just careened towards one knot of Baerd's enforcers. He saw other details, too: a man with a knife in his shoulder, and a woman with blood upon her face. As he cut down an archer with his back towards him, he saw the source of the chaos: Ramza Beoulve, sword in hand and green eyes blazing, looking like a demon.

Their eyes found each other.

"Beowulf?" Ramza whispered, and somehow Bewoulf could hear him even through the thunder, the rain, and the fighting.

And Beowulf almost laughed. "Move, Ramza!" he shouted, and swung his sword again.

He had rushed to this city, full of terror that he would lose another friend to Church treachery. But seeing Ramza standing there now, he knew there was nothing to be afraid of. He'd been wrong about many things when he was young. But he hadn't been wrong about this: when they fought together, they were legends.