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

The Tale of Beowulf: Farewell

It had taken taken days for Beowulf to tell his tale. He had told it only in bits and pieces as he and Ramza's friends had hurtled to Riovanes Castle from his father's manor: he had filled in the details, in fits and starts and strange fragments, as Ramza and his friends had marched from ruined Riovanes to reclaim the hidden Germonique Gospel. When he finally finished his tale, their little camp was silent: the fire they had gathered round burned low. Rafa's enormous willow, gnarled and twisted upon its hillock, hung heavy over them.

But Beowulf could not quite bring himself to look at any of the others. He had crossed a continent and dueled with Templars, dead men, and demons. Now, he needed their help, so he could finally save Reis.

His eyes were locked on Ramza.

"I can't," Ramza said softly.

Beowulf got up, turned slowly, and and left the campsite behind him.

"Beowulf!" Ramza called, and there was the tramping of feet in the grass behind him. Beowulf neither slowed his step nor turned his head to look. His eyes were burning.

"Hold on," Ramza said, and his voice was desperate. "Please.

Beowulf stopped. They had rounded the old willow tree, its twisted shadow framed by the fire on the opposite side. Beowulf felt as though the weight of the sky were pressing down on him, threatening to shatter him.

"I saved you in Goug." Beowulf's voice was shaking with pain he couldn't swallow. "I saved you at Riovanes. I need you now. I can't save Reis without you."

"You heard what Elmdor said," Ramza replied. "If I don't go-"

"I know." His voice still shook. "I know. Alma." He laughed, and felt the cracking inside him intensify. He didn't recall ever feeling this afraid. "And I'm alone again."

He spun around to face Ramza, feeling as lost and wild as he had when Violet had died, and his world had broken. He was so tired. "I can't do it, Ramza. I can't save her."

"Yes you can."

"I can't!" Beowulf cried. "I've let her down so many times! Like I let you down! And Delita! And Teta! And Alma!"He rushed towards Ramza, grabbed him by the shoulders. "Ramza, I can't...I can't keep failing like this." His voice was as tattered as his heart. "I can't."

Quietly, Ramza's arms folded around him, and pulled him close. The strength had gone out of Beowulf's legs, spine, and heart: hunched, aching and exhausted, he buried his face in his friend's chest, and wept.

It had been a long time since he had cried like this. Now he had cried like this twice in a few weeks. Once in Ramza's arms. Once in his father's.

He had hopped merchant caravans, stolen pack chocobos, and raced across hills to reach his father's manor from Zeltennia. When he had slipped inside (after a rather exciting duel with Agrias Oaks, convinced he was a Templar assassin, before Mustadio had intervened), he had found that Ramza had already left. Running to save his sister, and face another army, all on his own.

Beowulf had been born to be a legend. But sometimes, watching Delita weave his own schemes around the machinations of the powerful, and watching Ramza plunge headlong into danger without fear or hesitation, he found he was outmatched. And he wondered if he would ever achieve any of his own dreams, or if he would keep failing when the moment came.

And when they heard the danger Ramza was racing towards—not just one strong army, but the Templars, their sinister plans, and the demons that might walk among their ranks—his friends launched into action. As dangerous as the road ahead was, they were not afraid to walk it, if it meant they could help Ramza.

There was nothing he could do, to help them get ready. So he stood out on the balcony overlooking his father's unkempt land, and felt the weight of the night sky so far above, and wondered if he could keep fighting, when all his strength and skill kept failing him when he needed them most.

The door behind him creaked open. Beowulf turned his head, and found his father standing in the doorway, illuminated by firelight. A wrinkled brown robe hugged his powerful frame, and firelight gleamed in the silver of his hair and beard.

Without a word, his father crossed to him, and pulled him close, and the touch of his father was too much, the presence of him, the solidity of his powerful chest and the mingled sweat, book-must, and chalk-dust that had clung to him since Beowulf had known him, and suddenly Beowulf was a child again, missing his mother, afraid not of the dark but of what lay behind the dark, of a world where the people you loved were simply gone one day, and no strength could win them back, and no wisdom could explain why, and Beowulf started to cry.

Crying then, just like he was crying now. Clinging to his father like he clung to Ramza. He had fought for so long. He was so tired of fighting. He was so tired of failing.

"I know," Ramza said softly, so his breath tickled the roots of Beowulf's hair. "I...that's why I..." He shook his head: Beowulf felt it in his scalp. "Why I went to Riovanes alone. Couldn't...fail again."

Ramza thought he had failed? Ramza, who had thrown himself against impossible odds again and again, and won through each time? Who had braved the nightmare at Zeakden, and risked the wrath of the Church and the Cardinal, and who had just fought off both the Khamja and the Lucavi?

But even legends could cry. Even legends could be human. Like Beowulf's own father, who had begun to shake as he had held Beowulf, whose tears had wet Beowulf's hair before he'd realized what was happening, and when Beowulf had looked up he had since his father's lined face gleaming with tears, and Beowulf had caught his father in surprise, pulled him close, and realized as he did it that he was much taller than his father, and when the hell had that happened?

"Look at you," his father whispered. "So much more than I expected, every time I see you." He looked up Beowulf, and the pride in his eyes made Beowulf's heart ache. "It's just like you said when you were young. They will tell stories about you one day."

Beowulf shook his head. "I'm not...I haven't done anything worth..."

"I'm not sure that's true," Daravon said, and kissed his son on the cheek. "But even if you haven't yet, all stories must start somewhere." He beamed at his son. "And your tale already has quite a beginning."

He ruffled a hand through Beowulf's hair, and his smile saddened. "You were always going to be a soldier," he murmured. "And soldiers don't spend much time at home, especially when they're young. Legends even less." His eyes crinkled with mingled joy and sadness, as fresh tears flowed. "But I miss you, Wulfie."

Beowulf embraced his father, and held him tight. He didn't know what else he could do.

"I'm a little surprised, though," Ramza said, with the shadow of Rafa's tree towering above them. "Aren't you supposed to be a legend?"

Beowulf laughed shortly. "I'm not the one who's killed two Lucavi."

"Just one."

"Well. We all have to start somewhere." He lifted himself off Ramza's chest, though he did not pull away. "I'm sorry. I should've...if I'd been at Zeakden, or...or so many places, maybe-"

"You were there when I needed you," Ramza said, and then, "I hope I will be, too."

A flash of joy, buried in disbelief. "You mean-?"

Ramza squeezed his shoulders. "Head to the Archipelago. Find Reis. And when we've rescued Alma, we'll come to you."

Ramza smiled up at Beowulf. Beowulf smiled down at Ramza. His father believed in him. Ramza believed in him. And for the first time in a long time, Beowulf believed in himself. He was born to be a legend. And his tale would have a happy ending...especially with friends like Ramza helping him to tell it.