(Thank you for your patience. The next chapter will release 5/19/24)

Chapter 157: The Weight of Their Names

"On your feet, Ramza," Beowulf growled.

Ramza blinked awake. Beowulf stood over him, swords on either hip, scowling down at him. The little table, the little water basin, were all gone. Only the bed remained.

"Come on," Beowulf shook his shoulder again. Blearily, Ramza crawled to his feet. His legs felt weak, but they supported his weight: his head spun on his shoulders, but not so badly he couldn't stand.

"Good." Beowulf started dragging the mattress across the rune-laden floor. The rest of the stuff that had been with the mattress was piled by the stairs. "I'll bring it all up later."

Ramza stared after Beowulf, his mind crawling. "What are you-"

"Can't train much outside," Beowulf grunted. "Don't want to draw any eyes on this place." He took his place in one of the high-gravity squares, and deliberately toed the rune. It burst to life, and Beowulf began to swing his swords as though trying to cut through water. They were not his usual Silencing blades: they looked, at a glance, like the blunt training swords from the Military Academy.

"And you read the Gospel," Beowulf continued, just a hint of exertion in his voice. "We'll need to be sharp. We'll need to be strong. That's the only way we'll stop him."

Stop who? Ajora?

Beowulf's eyes flickered towards Ramza. "That goes for you, too, Ramza. Rest up. We'll need you."

Ramza shook his head, and stumbled away from Beowulf. He was still so terribly weak—his legs could barely support his weight, and he was out of breath by the time he reached the stairs.

"I'll help you," Reis said.

She was standing in the shadow of the stairs, where Beowulf couldn't see her. Ramza gratefully leaned upon her shoulders, and they began their slow climb up to the manor proper.

"He doesn't...he doesn't really think..." Ramza didn't know what to say.

"Why shouldn't he?" Reis asked.

Ramza glanced over at her. Reis' face was set, her violet eyes fixed forwards. "You've been up against demons and ancient magic for a long time. Nothing's changed."

Nothing's changed, she said, but he heard the twinge in her voice. He didn't ask any other questions.

Reis was not alone, in carrying those strange echoes, that deep doubt. He felt it everywhere he looked, and everywhere he went. He had felt this pall over the Daravon Estate before—months ago, when they had limped back from Orbonne, when he had first lost Alma. He thought at first the heaviness must be in him—in his weariness, in his pain, in his weakness. But watching his friends, he saw it in them, too. They were all muted, subdued. What they had learned from the message hidden within Germonique's Gospel had shaken them, one and all.

He awoke in the bedroom he shared with Radia when she sat heavily on the bed, her head buried in her hands. Tentatively, he put a hand upon her back.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Ramza shrugged. "Think I've spent enough time sleeping." He squeezed her shoulder. "Thank you. For taking care of me."

"When you're better, I'm gonna yell at you." She shook her head. "Can't believe you went in alone."

"I'm sorry." He started to say something else, and the words stuck in his throat. He saw Zalbaag dying in front of him: he felt the heat of the Manor burning around him: he saw his father wheezing his last, and remembered his mother wheezing just the same. Poison and plague, vengeance and violence, and it was all too much.

He pulled Radia towards him, and buried his face against her chest, and cried for all he was worth. He felt her shaking as she held him, crying in turn.

After the crying had stopped, they lay tangled together on the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Few indeed were the runelights in the Daravon Estate—all the magic in this place was spent on their equipment or on the training room below. The last rays of evening light cast shadows across their room, and left just enough light to see by.

"It's not a hero's story."

Ramza looked up at her. Radia was staring straight at the ceiling, her eyes still faintly red.

"The Brave Story," she continued. "It's not about heroes. It's...it's just about power. The Stones create Lucavi. People fight for the Stones. That's why they're always tied together. It's...it's true for all the stories. The King of Lesalia and his son. Ajora and his Disciples. They're one and the same." She closed her eyes. "It's...it's no different than...this. This War, and the Church. Just...struggling for power."

He heard the echoes in her words—echoes of the Death Corps, who had hurt the people they were supposed to serve, fighting the Hokuten, who had hurt the people they were supposed to serve. On and on it went, all Ivalice soaked in blood and misery. And all that blood and misery now feeding a monster. Feeding the Saint.

"Every time I find something to believe in," Radia whispered. "Every time..."

She trailed off. Ramza pulled her into his chest. She did not shake. She did not cry. She held him, and he held her, as the last glimmers of sunlight faded from their window, leaving only darkness behind.

He awoke again in darkness, with Radia breathing slow and steady against him. He lay with her for a long time, staring up into the dark. But weary as he was, he had spent too long abed: he kissed her forehead, and slipped away from her, into the lesser darkness of Daravon's estate. Down a distant hallway, he spied a flickering light, and followed it. The light came from the salon fireplace: Ramza lingered, looking from the sunken chairs to the glass doors that led out onto the balcony overlooking Daravon's overgrown estate. How many triumphs had he felt in this room? How many tragedies?

But his drifting eyes found he was not alone. Mustadio was slouched deep in one of the chairs, utterly still. He stared into this fire, his eyes as empty as glass.

"Mus?" Ramza said softly.

Mustadio's eyes didn't change. He raised one hand in idle greeting. His other hand clutched an ungainly gun to his chest that Ramza didn't recognize.

"That's new," Ramza said.

Mus' lips twitched in a not-quite-smile. "Not exactly." He started ticking numbers off on his fingers. "My pistol. The gun we took from the Amazon. Barich's spellgun and pistol. The Grand Duke's revolver." Now he lifted the gun in his other hand. "By the time I'm done, the goal is to have two revolvers. One that functions like the Grand Duke's, though with a bit more punch. The other will be preloaded with spells."

"That's..." Ramza shook his head. "That's impressive."

"The work of at least three Machinists." He paused. "My father would like to talk to you, when you have time."

Ramza didn't answer. He knew the work Besrodio was doing in his workshop—a dozen different projects and experiments to improve their equipment. He wanted to help get them ready to fight. Ramza was not ready to think of fighting.

Will you be ready?

"How long did you know?" Ramza asked, through the dread of his thoughts. "About..."

Mustadio shook his head. "It is not so easy, Ramza." He held up his ungainly gun, and covered the stock and trigger. "If I discovered just the barrel of my gun, I might think it only a piece of pipe. It is only in the context of the whole that I can make proper sense of what a barrel is...and begin to glean its purpose." Mustadio was quiet for a moment. "No, I have not known long. But suspected...bits and pieces of my translation that pointed towards...towards horror..." He shrugged. "Since we recovered the Codex."

"Since the Wastes," Ramza said. Mustadio nodded. "When you asked me...how we keep going..."

Mustadio smiled sadly. "Yes. Barich's death was bad. But what I was beginning to suspect..." He laughed. "I am the greatest of my Machinist of my age, Ramza." His smile flickered. "Compared to me, Barich Fendsor pales. All his could do was kill a few armies."

Ramza shook his head in turn. "Mus..."

"They turned death itself into their ally." He slumped back in the chair. "I have spent my life studying their works. I have unlocked their greatest secret. Death and conquest would not merely be means to an end, but ends in themselves. Every victory, every defeat, fueling their eternal Empire."

"You didn't make this," Ramza said.

Mustadio shrugged. "One who has knowledge has the obligation to act upon that knowledge If it were not so, what would be the point of learning at all?"

"You have some way to stop it?" Ramza asked.

"Even if I did not, I would want to try." Mustadio looked back to the fire. "We have to."

Mustadio's works stuck with Ramza, as he wandered back upstairs to sleep. They were still with him when he awoke with Radia gone. He drifted down the stairs, exchanged half-hearted greeting with Agrias, and pressed onto the training room. It was easier to move every day. Easier to breathe.

Within the training room, Cid and Beowulf dueled. In the shadow of the stairwell, Reis watched them.

"You're feeling better?" she asked.

"Yeah. You?"

Reis smiled faintly. "Physically? Much. Healed up. Got my own practice in. I think the next time I change, it won't cost me quite so much."

"The next time?"

Reis glanced at him. "We both know it's coming."

Again, that certainty—from her, and Mustadio, and Beowulf. They really believed they could challenge Ultima. Challenge Ajora.

"You said 'physically'," Ramza replied.

Reis' smile faded. "Yeah."

She looked back to the training room. In the brief time they'd looked away, Beowful had been flung to the ground. In one twist, he flung himself back to his feet, and charged back at Cid. Ramza was surprised to note that Cid was not even carrying his sword.

"I knew kids who'd been raised by the Church since they were born," Reis said softly. "I wasn't like them...the ones who'd never think to question the teachings, because they've never known anything else. But I was young, when Bremondt found me. I grew up around them. I believed them. God's gifts serve a purpose: the wrong of the world comes from not finding that purpose, or turning against it." She chuckled under her breath. "Mind, I've had a lot more reason to question them. Even before..."

Before what, Ramza wondered? Before she'd joined them in their campaign against the Lucavi? Or before Bremondt had turned on her? Or some other before, in the long list of befores they all had?

"But even...even when I found out you had the Germonique Gospel...even when I read it for myself..." Reis shook her head. "I didn't imagine this." She was quiet for a moment. "When Bremondt transformed me...that wasn't what he wast trying to do. He was trying to...change me deeper than that. Make me...serve him." Her voice wavered. "And I think of what Malak's told us...and what Germonique said. All those souls...forced to..."

She took a deep breath, and looked back at him. "We have to stop this, Ramza. We have to."

But how to stop it? How to stop this nightmare the Ydorans had started so long ago? How, when the last time anyone had tried they had unleashed such endless ruin upon Ivalice?

How, when Ramza was so weak and powerless?

There was only one possible answer to the 'how.' Finally, late on a cloudy afternoon, Ramza left the Manor, and made his way towards Besrodio's workshop. Alicia and Lavian were just coming out: Lavian shot him a worried look, brushing dark hair out of her eyes. "You feeling alright?"

"No," Ramza said, and tried to smile.

Alicia nudged Lavian with her elbow. "You said he's fine."

"I said he was better than he had any right to be," Lavian said. "That does not mean he's 'fine.'

"You worry too much."

"It's like you with your fingers, all over again."

"Can't get better if I don't use'em."

"Can't get better if you keep using them until they bleed."

Alicia grimaced. "She worries too much, right?" Alicia said to Ramza. Can't do much else, while Besrodio's finishing our gear."

"He's making something for you, too?" Ramza asked

"We got most of the work done while you guys were gone," Alicia said. "Upgrading my scepter and making a new staff for Lav." She paused. There was an odd, guilty look to her eyes. "We were, uh...we were just coming to find you, actually. He wanted to talk to you."

"Here I am."

Alicia nodded, and hurried past him. Lavian looked after her for a moment, then looked back to Ramza. "Please. Go slow. Be careful. We need you well."

She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then followed her partner. Ramza took a deep breath, then entered Besrodio's workshop.

"-a certain order to these things, Bode."

"Certainly there is, Bes. And just as certainly, some parts of that order exist only because of tradition, not because of efficacy."

"You are not telling me anything I do not know, but our time for experimentation here is limited. If we want everything ready in time-"

Besrodio broke off. He was hunched over an odd mesh of metal and leather, with an open book nearby. Daravon stood in front of him, his finger on one page of the book.

"Ramza," Besrodio said. "It is good to see you up and about."

Ramza nodded, and looked at Daravon. "They didn't tell me you were here."

"I've been helping Besrodio ready your gear," Daravon said.

"Helping," Besrodio snorted, with an affectionate glance at the other man. "More like hindering."

"The workshop alone-"

"Another greedy patron, eager for the spoils of my genius."

Daravon smiled, and shook his head. "You're feeling better?" he asked Ramza.

"As I can," Ramza answered.

Daravon nodded. "You saw Alicia and Lavian?"

"On my way in." Ramza looked to Besrodio. "You're upgrading their gear?"

Besrodio nodded, and gestured towards a table farther back, near the forge. Two gleaming staffs sat side-by-side, thick with shimmering runes. "Alicia's is relatively easy—I built it in the first place. Lavian's is a tad more complicated. One of the reasons we wanted to talk to you."

Ramza frowned. "What can I do?"

"It's about the gear we're designing," Daravon said.

"We?" Besrodio muttered, with another wry look at him.

"Quite frankly, the treasures you have collected in your travels are...intimidating," Daravon continued, as though he hadn't hear Besrodio. "Taken together, the gil these items are worth could fund a small army." He smiled slightly. "Mind, you've beaten many small armies...and the battle you're set to embark on requires different skills. The right levers, so you may move all the earth."

Ramza stared at Daravon for a moment. "You read the Gospel."

"And its translation." Daravon arched his bushy eyebrows. "You did not think you could keep the truth from me anymore?"

"I..." Ramza didn't know what to say. They had abandoned their early silence to Daravon—between the flight to Riovanes and Zalbaag's arrival, they could afford to have few secrets anymore—but he still didn't want to pull Daravon any deeper. It was dangerous enough that Daravon was sheltering them.

Into his silence, Daravon continued, "I can scarcely imagine the battles you've fought already, against Workers, armies, dragons, and demons. Fiercer battles lie ahead. We must make ready." He held up the Marquis' long katana. "This, for instance. It's designed for Swordbreakers, but the Marquis made some interesting innovations. We can repurpose its materials."

"We are particularly interested in using it for Melia and Beowulf's swords," Besrodio put in.

"But we understand that it has been one of your principle weapons."

Ramza shrugged. "Only because I didn't have another."

A flicker of something in Daravon's eyes. "I see. So you wouldn't mind us using it to fashion something better." Ramza nodded. "Does that apply to your gauntlets, as well?"

"I..." Ramza trailed off. His gauntlets were besides the katana—he hadn't seen them, hadn't even thought about his equipment since the battle at the Manor. His throat felt tight: he could taste ash and smoke on his tongue, and swallowed to try and quash it. Those gauntlets had served him well—he wasn't using them for their designed purpose, but the Swordbreaker art of focusing your magic to shatter others' seemed well-suited to his own technique. It had helped him, when he tore off Dycedarg's jaw.

A pang in his arms. A pang in his heart. He swallowed again.

"That's Melia's decision."

Besrodio chuckled. "She said it was yours," Daravon replied, smiling.

He had come here to start moving. To shake off his exhaustion, his depression, his weakness. To find some way to challenge the plans of the Lucavi.

"I'll need a weapon," Ramza said.

"We believe we can strip down the gauntlets and improve them to better suit your needs," Besrodio said.

"He has some ambitious ideas," Daravon added.

Ramza nodded. "Alright." The words felt pulled from him, like a toy from the hands of an unwilling child.

"How about Perseus?" Daravon asked.

Ramza blinked. "Argus' bow?"

Daravon nodded. Besrodio had pulled the shining white bow from its place in a basket closer to Daravon, and handed it to him. Daravon ran his hands along the fine wood. "It's a beautiful piece," Daravon murmured. "Perhaps Argus might have survived the campaign agains the Corps, if he had held it then." Another strange flicker in Daravon's eyes. "Though perhaps you wouldn't have."

Ramza didn't know what to say. He remember Argus, bleeding out in the snow, cursing him. He remember Argus, falling to his knees in front of him, begging him to stop the plans of the Lucavi. He remembered purple fire consuming Argus, as he apologized. He remembered a different fire consuming Zalbaag.

"Nothing will remain?" Ramza asked. His voice shook.

"More than of the Marquis' katana," Daravon said. "Less than of Izlude's gauntlets. Our main purpose is to use its power to make Lavian a staff worthy of her. She is reluctant to accept such a gift-"

"As reluctant as Alicia is insistent," Besrodio put in, as he wound his way towards the back of his workshop.

Daravon nodded. "-but I believe it is the missing piece."

Ramza stared at the bow he had taken from Argus' ashes. He stared at the last remnant of House Thadolfas. That bow had served him well—at the Neveleska Archipelago, and at Bethla Garrison, too. It was a gift from Argus, one he could only use so well thanks to Argus' teachings.

"I...I don't know."

That flicker in Daravon's eyes lingered a moment longer. "No?" Besrodio approached from behind him, with an ungainly bundle in rough cloth. "Then I suppose you don't know about these, either."

Besrodio placed the clinking bundle in front of Daravon. Daravon set the bow down with his left hand, and flipped open the rough sackcloth with the other. Inside lay two swords, naked of their sheathes. One was shorter—a good one-handed sword, fine of edge and point. The other was a bastard sword of black steel. Both shimmered with runes.

"They found them?" Ramza asked, staring down at Justice and Service.

"They weren't far from you," Daravon answered.

Ramza stared at the swords. He felt Daravon's words spreading slowly through his consciousness, the way pain spreads slowly from a broken bone. He was aware of the pain coming, gathering on the horizon of his mind like a great wave.

"You..." Ramza's voice cracked. "You want to...destroy...my father's words."

"No," Daravon said. "We want to repurpose your swords."

His eyes flinched up to Daravon's. The fire in Daravon's gaze was not merely flickering anymore—it was blazing. It was not without kindness, but the ferocity far outweighed any mercy, any compassion. In the years he head known him, Ramza had never seen such an expression on the Master Instructor's face.

"Your father passed these swords on to your brothers," Daravon said. "One brother lost his claim when he was revealed as a patricide. The other passed his sword onto you. You may never inherit the lands and titles that are your due, as eldest heir to House Beoulve-"

The pain hit then, overwhelming him: he turned and fled the workshop. If Daravon or Besrodio called out to stop him, he did not hear them.

Eldest heir to House Beoulve. Eldest heir because their family had torn each other to pieces. The swords he was never meant to inherit were his to destroy as he pleased. His father's house was ashes: who knew what had become of his mother's house, after she had died? The abyss of loss was cold fire, and Ramza ran to stop it drowning him and burning him and smothering him all at once.

He heard his father's rasping, rattling pleas. He saw Zalbaag's mouth working frantically as power obliterated him. He heard the guttural thunder of Dycedarg's demonic cries. He heard his mother's whispers. He heard Alma's screams. So much death in his ears. So much death in his eyes. So much death in his heart.

He had survived, when so many others had died. He had survived, and the words he had tried to live by were as useless as the swords Besrodio and Daravon wanted to melt down to so much scrap. He had survived, and so many were dead, and he was so, so tired.

He wanted to run from this place. He couldn't run from this place. He was a wanted heretic, a wanted patricide, a wanted fratricide. He was the worst monster since the time of Germonique. And Germonique wanted him to follow in his footsteps. To kill the Saint, and invite a Second Judgment upon all Ivalice.

So he fled, around the side of the Manor, to a solitary tree on a nearby hilltop. So he sank down by its roots, and buried his head in trembling hands. His arms were weak. His legs were weak. His soul was weak.

How long he sat there he couldn't say. He looked up only when he heard powerful strides rasaping through the grass. Even so, he was too slow: powerful hands knotted in his tunic, and hauled him to his feet.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Rafa demanded, her dark-eyes feverbright.

Ramza's head swam. His thoughts felt far away. He didn't bother trying to answer her.

Rafa's lips curled into a snarl, and she shoved him back against the tree. "Look at me, Ramza."

And what would be the point of that? What was the point of anything? Everything crumbled. Everything ended.

There were other sounds in the grass. Ramza could vaguely make out two other figures approaching the tree, slow and uncertain. He didn't bother to look at them, as he didn't bother to look at Rafa.

Rafa shook him again. "This is it? You're giving up?"

There wasn't anything to give up. House Beoulve had fallen. Ramza had failed to save his father. Had failed to save his brother. Had failed, as he always failed.

"Look at me!" Rafa cried, with another shake. "You don't get to give up!"

A dim flicker of anger. He still didn't look at her.

"You're not the only one who's lost people they loved," she whispered. "You're not the only one who's had to keep fighting, even though you're hurting."

The anger was stronger now. His eyes finally found her face-

And found that there was desperate kindness, in her fever-bright eyes. His anger faltered at the sight of it.

"I'm so tired, Rafa," he whispered.

She searched his face for a moment, then slowly lowered him back to the earth. His legs trembled beneath him, but bore his weight.

"You deserve to rest," Rafa whispered back. "I wish you could. But we don't have time." She took his hands in hers "Your sister's in trouble. Our kingdom's in trouble. This thing ate my friends. It ate your brother."

A flash of sudden terror. He remembered Zalbaag turning to ash, and suddenly realized that his suffering hadn't ended. Project Ultima still ate all of Ivalice's dead. His brother? His mother? His father? The Hand? Izlude? How many souls down through the years, lost in that pit? How many souls, to fuel the monster the Lucavi were trying to bring back to life?

Malak and Melia had finished climbing the hill behind her. Both were solemn, but in their eyes was the same frightened, kind certainty as Rafa. Melia, who had lost her brother, and soldiered on past all belief. Malak, who had been to Hell and back.

"I know you're tired," Rafa said. "But you can't stop. Same as me, with a bullet in my leg, and dead friends behind me. There's still work to do. Whatever it costs. However much it hurts." She squeezed his hands again. "But you're not alone."

No, not alone. He remembered another time holding hands with Rafa, beneath a different tree. He had set out alone to try and save his sister, but even then, he had not stayed alone. There had been Olan, offering him kindness on the hard road: there had been Rafa, willing to risk everything for the thin hope he offered.

"What are we supposed to do?" Ramza asked.

"We go to Mullonde."

Ramza looked back at Melia. She was smiling in a way he'd never seen her smile—shy, like a frightened child putting on a brave face. He thought of her the same way he thought of Agrias—so calm, so unflappable, so utterly certain. It was strange to see her shaken like this.

"To Mullonde?" he repeated.

"She won your confidences," Malak put in, with his own tremulous smile. "And struck when the moment was right. Now she brings you to Mullonde, to reveal your crimes...and to find out where the Stones are hid."

"The same lie Malak told the Grand Duke," Rafa said, squeezing Ramza's hands once more. "To buy us time."

"And we get you to the Confessor," Melia said. "With any luck, Inquisitor Zalmour has already prepared the way for us..." Her smile faded. "Though...I doubt it. I fear the Lucavi may have...there's been no sign of him." She took a deep breath, and pressed, "Even if he hasn't...we'll have a chance. Convince the Confessor, and you're no longer a heretic. We force the Lucavi into the open. We stop them from...from bringing back..." She closed her eyes, and took another deep breath. "And we save Alma, too."

"Walk into a trap, knowing it's a trap, and springing it your way," Malak said. "It's the work you're made for."

Ramza almost smiled, but couldn't quite manage it. Danger again. Terrible danger, terrible risk. Not just for him, but for his friends. For Melia, who would go not knowing if her father was lying in wait, be he mortal or man. For Alma, who might be lost if the plan failed. For any of his friends foolish enough to join him.

They'll all join me.

Every one would fling themselves into the fire. They'd done it at Riovanes, at Limberry, at the Archipelago, at the Garrison. They kept risking their lives, over and over. For him.

Not just for me.

Right. They'd all lost people, along the way. Barich Fendsor. The other poor children of the Hand. Izlude. The Valkyries. All lost, within the Hell that had almost claimed Malak.

It was a foolish plan. But Malak was right: they'd spent their years on foolish plans. And to end such a nightmare, it might just be worth the risk.

"I'm..." Ramza shook his head. "I'm not ready."

Rafa squeezed his hands one final time. "But you will be."

She let him go, and walked away. Malak lingered for a moment, then followed. Melia remained behind, watching him. He leaned back against the tree, but did not sink back to the earth. He stared at her, and she at him.

"If your father..." Ramza started, and trailed off, not sure what he meant to say.

"I know," Melia answered, and left in turn.

He stayed where he was for a little while—long enough for the sun to begin to fade to gold, as it sank towards the horizon. When he finally left his tree, his legs ached, and his head swam—he was still so weak, and so tired. But he had strength enough to put one foot in front of the other, as he walked back to Besrodio's workshop.

When he arrived, Agrias was just leaving. They stopped in front of each other, locking eyes. She put a single hand on his shoulder, then started to walk away.

"Agrias?" Ramza hated how small his voice sounded. "If...it it were you..."

Agrias looked over her shoulder at him. "Many years ago, I set out to Orbonne alongside my Princess. My duty was to guard her, and keep her safe." She looked away. "That feels an awful long time ago, now."

Neither of them spoke. A quiet wind rustled through the grass, and toyed with their hair.

"I wish I had not failed her," Agrias said. "Nor is that my only failure, since she was taken from me. I am not the woman I was, when we first set out for Orbonne." She straightened her back. "We become what we have to, however we fail, however we hurt, whatever the cost." She looked over her shoulder. "I learned that from you."

She headed back towards the house. Ramza took a deep breath, and entered the workshop once again. Inside, it was far quieter: Besrodio was nowhere in sight. Daravon was making absent notes on different sheafs of paper spread across the room. He looked up briefly when Ramza entered, then went back to making his notes.

"If now is not a good time, we can discuss this later," Daravon said.

Ramza shook his head. "I...I don't think we have a choice, Instructor."

Daravon's head snapped up, blue eyes glaring. "Nonsense. We always have a choice, and that choice always makes a difference. The choice may be unpleasant, the difference minuscule. But it is still a real choice. It still matters."

Ramza locked eyes with his professor, and did not answer.

"Zalbaag died, fighting a Lucavi," Daravon said, and Ramza almost flinched. "He died saving you?" This time Ramza did flinch, though he managed to flinch into something approximating a nod. Daravon nodded in turn. "Of course he did."

A flicker of the same petulant anger he'd felt towards Rafa. "Of course?"

Daravon arched his bushy eyebrows. "Yes. You do not understand why?"

"He...he wanted to..." Ramza felt tears in his eyes again. He remembered, not the sight of his brother's death, but their walk to their father's tomb. He remembered their arms around each other, as he wept. He remembered hoping, for the first time in years, that he had a brother he could trust and count on.

And in the last moments of his life, that was exactly who Zalbaag had been. The same brother Ramza had seen with awestruck eyes, as he stepped out of the chocobo-drawn carriage. A man who looked like he could take on the world, and win.

"...wanted to save me," Ramza whispered. "To...make up for...for what he did."

"You do him too little credit," Daravon scoffed. "Your brother may have been the finest swordsman I ever knew. Perhaps even better than your father. At the very least, he was the finest swordsman I ever trained, though I imagine Wulfie would disagree." He jabbed a finger at Ramza. "Faced with an enemy more terrible than any in his experience—an enemy out of legends—he chose to save you. Why?"

Razma shook his head. "I don't-"

"He was not just a great swordsman, Ramza!" Daravon pressed. "He was a commander with over a decade of experience across three separate campaigns! Think it through as if you were him!" He leaned forwards. "How did he save you?"

"Andrammalech...Dycedarg...the Lucavi..." Ramza closed his eyes against the weight of his memory, the weight of his grief. "He was...going to kill me. And Zalbaag...flung himself into the path of the blast, and...and put Justice in my hands, and..." The words caught in his throat. He forced them out. "Stabbed himself."

"And poured his strength into you?" Daravon asked. Ramza nodded, his eyes still closed. "You were both injured?" Again, Ramza nodded. "Now do you understand?" Ramza shook his head. Zalbaag's face kept melting in front of him. He wondered if he would ever be able to remember his brother again without remembering how he died.

"Ramza," Daravon's voice was quieter now, but no less insistent. "Your brother was a capable soldier, and a capable commander. He was faced with a choice where only one of you could carry on the fight. He chose you. His love for you no doubt played a role...but to think he acted only out of love does him too little credit. It was not just love. It was hope. And instinct. And intelligence. I do not believe he saved you simply to make up for failing you. I believe he saved you because, of the two of you, you were the only one who could win the fight."

"And he was right."

Ramza managed to open his eyes, though the world was still blurry through his tears. Daravon regarded him from across the table and its weapons. "Your brother could not have healed himself with your strength, as your healed yourself with his. Hell, Radia Gaffgarion has more talent with the Draining Blade than you, but she has paid far higher costs in practicing it. You faced a Lucavi alone, Ramza, and won. Not only won, but won so well that you can stand before me, ready to fight, mere days later."

Daravon crossed around the table, and put his strong hands on Ramza's shoulders. Ramza screwed his eyes closed again, to keep from sobbing.

"Zalbaag Beoulve was everything Ivalice wants its noble warriors to be," Daravon said. "And Zalbaag Beoulve could not have slain the Lucavi you faced. Much less could he hope to stop this...Ultima. But you can. You, who have learned from royal mages. You, who have learned to strengthen yourself to challenge Workers and Dragons. You, who lead a company of heroes such as I have never known, and are equal to any one of them."

"Your brother was the finest swordsman I have ever known. But what matter swordsmanship? What matter swords?" He squeezed Ramza's shoulders, and pulled him into an embrace, and that was too much for Ramza, he started to sob, clinging to the old man who had been there for him so often these last few years, clinging to his friend's father, who had always had faith in him, always believed in him, always allowed him a moment to rest.

When his sobs had quieted, Daravon whispered, "There's an old philosophical question out of the Romandan Empire. It's about...whether ends justify the means. It branches out, the more you think of it. Can you kill one man, to save two? Can you torture a child if it lets you build a paradise?" Daravon shook his head against the top of Ramza's skull. "There may be a time for such questions. But I would pose a different one." He shifted, so Ramza could stare into his face. "There is no nobility in keeping a sword as a sword, just to honor the dead. A sword is a tool: a weapon you use, when weapons are called for. To insist on using a sword when something better will do..."

Ramza was quiet for a moment. "Do you think...would Zal..." He shook his head. "No. Would...would my father have approved?"

Daravon shook his head. "I don't know, Ramza. And, more importantly...I don't think it matters." He looked into Ramza's eyes. "It only matters if you approve, Ramza Beoulve."

For a moment, Ramza had felt equal to his father, and his brothers. For a moment, he had felt himself growing into the kind of man he'd always wanted to be—not without doubt or fear, but with doubt and fear as whetstones that sharpened him when it counted most. For a moment, as he'd stood in Bethla Pass and roared a challenge that had cowed a thousand men, he had thought he might rival his father.

But that time was behind him, turned to ashes alongside Zalbaag. He ached, in his bones and in his soul. He was so terribly tired. And Daravon still asked more of him. Asked him to melt down his father's swords.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. All he wanted was to rest. But he believed Rafa. He believed Daravon. There was not time to rest. There was not time to cling to old swords, when he needed something new. Something that might let him put an end to Project Ultima, and wrest free the souls of Ivalice still churning in that endless hell.

His father. His mother. Zalbaag. Warin. Erik. Gaffgarion. Miluda. Teta. How many more people, down through the years? How many friends? How many people he'd killed?

It could not be allowed to continue. No matter how long their odds were, or how thin their hopes. No matter the cost.

"Alright," Ramza said. "Melt them down." His eyes burned. "Give us the strength to end this."