Part-II

Delita was beginning to question the brilliance of his plot. It seemed failsafe; capture the princess, bring her to Goltanna, win his favor, rise in rank, rinse and repeat. At the very least he should see himself made a commander before the year was out. Possibly greater as Ovelia was Goltanna's surest route to the throne. But there was something wanting in it and he suspected the reality of the princess herself was likely the blame.

She was not a regal, arrogant thing as Delita might have expected from one as highly born as she, but then again Delita had never met any monarchs, and it was possible that the haughty, disdainful countenance he had so often observed was reserved for the lower nobility. Still he would have at least thought there would be some pride in her, yet there was not. She was somber and pallid, accepting her abduction with quiet indifference rather than kicking and screaming or boasting of hope for a valiant rescue. She had made some small mention of her body guards coming to her aid, but did not seem to really care whether they succeeded in retrieving her or not.

It was pathetic really. Here was a girl who might have had the world, who's position in life was great enough that she could accomplish anything if she endeavored to do it, yet she was too miserable and feeble to do so. Yet truly, he thought, it must have been harsh abuse indeed that could have rendered her so wretched, for even the weakest of spirits would not be so broken as hers without significant battering. He could not help but sympathize with her melancholy, for having he himself endured so many years under the torment of relentless nobility. He now began to realize that he hitherto had not understood the expanse of their cruelty, for none ever stood to gain anything by his exploitation.

Somehow he could no longer rejoice in using Ovelia to his advantage, for in doing so, he merely sentenced her to continue to suffer as a pawn in Duke Goltanna's ploy for the throne. She ought to have been the queen, the most powerful player in this twisted human chess game. Instead she was just as powerless as he, a landless, fortuneless commoner. He wished more than anything that she had been spoiled and horrid as he had imagined her, so that he could turn her over to those powers that sought her without any remorse.

Perhaps that was why he had let her go. Of course he already had designs to reclaim her; the fact that her rescuers intended to bring her to Cardinal Delacroix in Lionel had not escaped his ears and he knew that, though the cardinal seemed a neutral power, he would certainly endeavor to use Ovelia for his own purposes, once she fell into his protection. That is if Confessor Marcel wished it, for the church was just as guilty of power mongering as the nobility, only they were far better at hiding it. This left Delita with two ways in which he might reclaim her: one, rescue her from Delacroix before he used her to personal advantage, and two, present himself as an ally to the cardinal and offer to deliver the princess to Goltanna in his name. The first option was better, for it was more heroic, but either way still ended with him hand delivering the princess to Goltanna and ascending by his favor. And it remained to be seen just how much loyalty the church thought they could afford to pay to either Goltanna or Larg in their quest to start a war between the two.

How he had fallen in with Goltanna in the first place was no deed of chance. An explosion at Ziekden fortress, the battle that saw his sister's death, had left him too presumed dead by all who knew him. In truth it was Tietra who had saved him from death, for with her last life's strength did she move to shield him from death. She had died needlessly, victim to the indifference of the nobility in the quest to eradicate a common nuisance. It was a tragic death; even were she not his beloved sister, he would have mourned for her. Now he was alone in the world, penniless, friendless, left with no real desire to even continue living. Zalbaag himself, one who'd claimed that Tietra was dear to him as his own sister, was the very person who gave the command to kill her. Enraged though he had been at the calmness the man displayed upon her kidnapping, he never believed for a moment that he would love her so little as to kill her.

It destroyed him. Everything he'd ever known was a lie, every kindness and luxury paid to him by the upper class, a frivolous pastime cast aside when they grew tired of it. For three days he ate nothing, drank little, and lay in misery by his sister's lonely grave. He had no recollection of sleeping, or even breathing, just the all-consuming desire that his life might simply slip away from him and thus end his suffering. But this feeling did not last; as the third day came to an end, so too did his wish for death. His sister had used her last flicker of life to save him, and if he did not live, her death would truly be in vain. He gathered what little strength and food he could find and departed in search of a town.

A torrential rain struck just as he reached the outskirts of a village called Ilinor, forcing him to seek shelter, for were he to catch cold in his half-famished, already ailing state, he might very well meet the end he had recently wanted so much. But he had no money for lodging and no desire to loiter amongst the tavern crowds, so he made for the only place where he knew he could find temporary shelter without expected patronage: the church. It was a small church, though not so small and unassuming as to be deemed modest, and presently unoccupied, save for an exceedingly polite and humble robed man and a very impressive looking grey bearded old clergyman.

The clean-shaven man, whom Delita suspected was the local priest, addressed him. "Welcome my child," he said. "Be it the rain or something greater that doth compel you to enter our walls, you are most welcome."

"Thank you," Delita tried to say, but the words did not sound quite right. He was dizzy and beginning to feel as though all sensations in his limbs were lost to him.

"You are pale and weary my son," observed the other. Delita thought he ought to have recognized him, yet he could hardly be certain of anything he saw at the moment. "What is it that ails you so?"

"I–" Delita began, unsure of what he wanted to say. His vision was blurring, fuzzy black dots replacing details of his surroundings and he realized he was on the verge of fainting just in time to throw he head down between his knees and prevent it. Still he found such sudden motion to be taxing, and though he did not faint, he had no choice but to let his body crash upon the floor.

Hands rushed to his aid, the lesser priest forcing a shoulder beneath his arm and helping him to sit upright. "You must rest child," he said gravely. "You are not well at all. I can only pray that you have not come to us too late."

Until that moment when he was half-dragged away across the wooden surface of sanctuary floor, hardly aware of whether he was truly conscious or on the edge of dreaming, Delita had never truly contemplated his death. He thought if he closed his eyes now and surrendered to darkness, creatures of the hereafter, if there were such a place, would rise up and drag him away, never to see the light of another living day. Though he did not know what he believed in terms of heaven or hell, he was certain of one thing: that he was terrified. Whatever came after life was a mystery that Delita was not anxious to solve and so he knew that he must fight to stay awake, or else be forced into discovering the answer.

He was laid upon an empty bed in the clergyman's apartments. The priest who had guided him there encouraged him to relax and sleep, and assured him that very soon monks and white mages would come to his aid, but Delita refused, still afraid that sleep would lead only to death, for if he did not remain awake, how was he to fight it? The priest sighed at his stubbornness, but bid him suit himself, and he went off to fetch the aid he had promised. For a moment Delita believed he was alone, though he did not know whether this thought should be a relief or distress to him, but long before he had a chance to dwell upon this dilemma he heard a voice.

"You seem very anxious to evade death, my son," it said. It was the other clergyman, the one with the lavish garb and long white beard. "How is it that one with such a strong will to live came to be in such a fragile state?"

"M-m-momentary lapse of spirits, f-father," Delita chattered. He was shivering, though whether it was for want of food or warmth, he could not say.

"I take it you speak of hope and courage and do not imply that you drank yourself into such misery. Forgive my impertinence, but may I inquire as to why you were so disheartened?"

Delita saw no harm in answering, for he was a priest and accustomed to hearing people's confessions. "My sister was killed."

"Is that all?" the priest asked. "I mean no offense, and am sorry for your loss, but during such troubling times as these, people are killed every day."

Delita realized the man may have been trying to provoke his anger, but he retorted anyway with, "No she was killed by one who claimed to hold her dear. Used and sacrificed by a noble family when it became convenient for them." The brush of rage was sustaining him; he was finding it much easier to fight sleep whilst he had another emotion to focus on.

"Ah, that is more worth such destructive grief," said the priest. "And you wished to join the sorry girl?"

"I had thought so," Delita confessed. "But presently I do not. With the last of her life did she save my own, I cannot let her die in vain."

"Then what is it you want my son?"

"I-" Delita began determinedly, but he could not continue. He clenched his fist, albeit rather weakly, in frustration and curled his lower lip under his teeth. He did not know how to respond, for the requested answer eluded him. He did not want revenge. He'd already dispatched of that sniveling Argath, by whose arrow Tietra had met her demise, and though he would be happy to see Zalbaag suffer he did not expressly wish for his death. There had already been too many pointless deaths and though the nobility was to blame of nearly all of them that did not mean that they should all pay with their lives. But neither could they continue to go about disregarding the lives of those deemed less important than theirs. Then something occurred to him.

"I want to protect my sister's memory. I want to ensure that what happened to her never happens to anyone else ever again."

"A noble sentiment indeed," the priest observed. "What say you if I were to make you an offer that might aid you in your quest?"

He was High Confessor Marcel, acknowledged sovereign of the Church of Glabados. And to Delita he revealed the church's plot to overthrow the nobility. He did not reveal all at once of course, nor quite so bluntly; Delita did succumb to the powers of sleep not long after Confessor Marcel had initially asked him to join in the church's plight. But in time, he did explain the whole of it, how they sought to stage a war of succession between Dukes Larg and Goltanna, a trivial war waged by the nobility on the nobility, that would naught but aggravate the common people. The incessant war costs and distaste for needless violence would turn the commoners to the church, and the church in turn would use their favor to incite rebellion against the nobles, ending their war and establishing the church as the supreme political power in Ivalice. That is, if Goltanna and Larg's parties did not destroy one another completely before the commoners had a chance to rebel, for that was a possibility and a highly desirable one.

From Confessor Marcel's perspective, Delita was a broken, desperate soul, with every reason to hate the nobility and thus an excellent candidate to join in the plot to destroy them. What the church needed were commoners, commoners to help plant the seeds of aversion and rebellion amongst the people and then guide them towards the church to seek counsel on these ill feelings. Delita had to admit, he did like the idea of overthrowing the nobility, though whether or not he thought the church more likely to be just and caring towards those not of high birth he could not say. Nevertheless, he agreed to join the church's cause

Three days after his initial arrival at the small church in Ilinor, Delita departed it in the company of High Confessor Marcel. They made for Mullonde, where Delita would meet the others, like him, who had elected to aid the church in its endeavor. The rain had driven many creatures, some of them hostile, down into the trees for shelter and their travelling party was not spared several encounters. Confessor Marcel was only too pleased to discover that in addition to being a fierce spirit, Delita was no slouch on the field of battle, for he fended off attacking goblins with greater speed and prowess than most of their accompanying guards. The boy was proving himself to be a much more useful ally than he'd originally thought.

In less than a fortnight, they reached their destination, relatively unscathed, plans already in motion to put Delita's particular talents to work. The solution was this: install Delita amongst Duke Goltanna's Order of the Southern Sky as a spy for the church. He might then assist in ensuring an alliance between Ovelia and Goltanna, such a union being necessary for starting the intended civil war. Then should individuals within the Southern Sky become too powerful, or suspicious of the church, Delita would be on the inside, and capable of dispatching of them without much hassle.

Of course Delita could not be instantly drafted into the ranks of Goltanna's army, for though Delita had much experience in the ways of the nobility he could not feign land and title, both of which would have been necessary for immediate acceptance. So he was placed amongst the Blackram Knights in Goltann's own city of Zeltennia, presented by the high confessor himself to their commander, Baron Grimms, as a orphan, raised in the monastery at Mullonde, educated by its priests and schooled in the ways of battle by old veterans of the Knights Templar. The Baron dared not appear impious before the head of the church and thus eagerly accepted the boy into his ranks as a city guard.

For three months Delita remained in Zeltennia, containing rebel uprisings and fending off the occasional attack from monsters or enemy troops. He endeavored to gain favor through exceptional service, devoting himself unflinchingly to improving his swordsmanship, and many was the solider who spoke highly of Delita to his commander. During one rebel skirmish, the baron finally saw that all of these reports were true and when a lieutenant met his end in battle, so impressed was Baron Grimm's by his most promising new recruit, that he immediately promoted him to fill the late man's post.

In another four month's time, King Ondoria's health was failing and Goltanna sought to make use of Ovelia's claim to the throne. One night a young woman appeared in Delita's quarters at the baron's estate. She was tall, slender and blonde, with a curious style of dress marked by a rather plain, short brown dress and vibrant blue cape. Who she was, what she wanted or how she had even found him, Delita did not know.

"My name is Valmafra. I have been sent by the church," she explained to the confused party.

"How did you get in here?" Delita asked, for the grounds were well guarded and the building he dwelt in housed many soliders.

"I have my ways," said she.

"What want you of me?"

"I bear news from the high confessor," she said. "The Northern Sky plans to kidnap Princess Ovelia. As there is little hope of her yielding her claim to the throne to appease Larg, they will like as not kill her. They plan to frame the Southern Sky for her mishaps."

"And what has this to with me?" Delita asked.

"You are to pose a Knight of the Northern Sky and be the one amongst the raiding party at Orbonne who kidnaps the princess," Valmafra commanded. "Then you shall deliver her to Goltanna where she will be forced to accept his protection. In the morning, you shall tell your Commander Grimms of this plan. You are the one who has heard of the Northern Sky's plot. You are the one who has formulated the plan to infiltrate their ranks to ensure her safety. If you speak thusly, he cannot refuse you when you propose that it is you who should be her deliverer."

Delita wanted to object, for he loathed being ordered about so, but it was a good plan and he found he could do naught but silently nod his acceptance. Sleep had not come to him that night, for he was plagued with doubts about the path on which life was taking him. He had always sought to be master of his own fate, and for months, though a part of him knew he served the church, he had operated on his own, improving his swordsmanship because he wanted to, earning his promotion because he had worked hard to make it so. But now he felt like nothing more than a tool to be used and thrown away at the church's convenience, just as he had always been to the nobility. They had formulated a plan and he would dutifully follow it. If it resulted in his death, so long as Ovelia remained well and in Goltanna's hands, he doubted any would mourn him.

After another hour of staring at the plaster ceiling Delita had decided this: that the best way to avoid being used was to know that you were, yet appear to be oblivious to it. Favor with Goltanna might advance him far in life, for Goltanna might one day be regent, so though it was the church that sent Delita to him, he thought he might well capitalize on this impending relationship. He would play the part the church wanted him to, and he would keep his options open as to what other alliances he formed whilst in their service might more soundly insure his ascension.

When morning came he told the church's plot, as if it were his own, to his commander and soon was on his way back towards Gariland, the city in which he had learned the swordsmanship to which he owed his current good fortune. Within a month, again through the sly white lies and negotiations of the church, he was installed amongst the Northern Sky, ordered to kidnap the princess whilst a party in their alliance, dressed as Knights of the Southern Sky, staged a battle on any resistance encountered at Orbonne. And kidnap the princess he did, but never with any intent of delivering her to Dycedarg, nor Larg as instructed but rather to their great enemy Goltanna.

It was too easy; he should have realized it. The feeble knights sent by the Northern Sky to pose as and frame their enemies for the princess's abduction were easily bested by the princesses body guard and the band of mercenaries there. He saw now that he ought not to have been surprised when he found himself and the princess surrounded by Northern Sky troops at Zeirchele falls. His surprise should have been even less on discovering that one of the mercenaries who came to aid the princess's guard in rescuing her turned out to be in the employ of Lord Dycedarg and that he had furthermore been instructed to kill the girl. Yet fortunately for him the princess's guard proved stronger than the knights and won victory over them, with more than a little thanks owed to the only person in this world whom Delita could be said to love.

Ramza Beoulve was alive and well. Of course Delita did not suspect him dead, but nor did he expect him to appear as he was. His hair had been cut short and he donned none of his usual finery, but wore sturdy work boots and the kind of unflashy metal armor that one might find on a common solider. Much of the softness in his appearance had gone and even his face seemed taught and hardened. If Delita didn't know any better, he'd have thought in their months apart that Ramza had become jaded and disillusioned, suddenly and unwillingly aware of the reality of human nature.

But his eyes, his eyes were exactly the same. Maybe a little bit sadder, but just as hopeful and trusting as they ever were. So despite the fact that Ramza had grown in strength and life experience, this growth had done naught to change his nature. Though he was now aware that people were capable of corruption and deceit, he still believed them good until proven otherwise. Hence why he would have decided so quickly on Cardinal Delacroix as the potential ally into whose hands they could safely place Ovelia, for he was a man of the church, and Ramza would never suspect the church of any selfish wrong doings.

Nor could he ever suspect that Delita might plan to use the princess in his own bid for self-advancement. Of that he was sure.

"Delita." The sound of his name, so pleasant and familiar in Ramza's voice, still rang vividly in his recent memory. "I did not think we would meet again, but…" His hesitation was rapturous, the anticipation of his eventual, "I am glad we have," just as gratifying as the sentiment.

"It was Tietra," he'd replied, looking to the sky. He hardly knew what he meant by it, except perhaps to inform Ramza how she had helped him to survive the explosion. He'd then clenched her locket, the one she'd been wearing on the day she died, in his fist and raised it towards the sun, trying his best to believe that she'd passed on to a better place and they might yet in death be reunited. It was all he could do to tear his mind from Ramza, from his desire to hold him and kiss him as he had so seldom done before.

"She watched over me then–as she does now."

A hawk then flew overhead. There had been a hawk that day too.

For the second time since he'd seen him Delita relived it. Ramza pressed against the ground, their bodies naked, lined with sweat, intertwining, Ramza's short and gasping breaths, the feeling of the dirt and grass against his own knees, the fear that his heart would burst for beating so fast, Ramza screaming in some combination of pain and ecstasy, and that feeling that just for a moment, he did not care for wealth or power or whatever judgment those in possession of it may pass upon him for this was pure bliss and all he ever needed or wanted.

He shook his head, as if such action might eject the memory from it. If Tietra really did watch over him at that moment she must be trying to tell him that he ought to keep on loving Ramza. He was not yet sure if he could do that.

What he did know was that he had allowed Ramza to take the princess from him. Poor Ovelia! He had turned her over to one who now unwittingly led her back into certain peril. Yet perhaps it was no coincidence that he had felt so easy and generous in relinquishing her to Ramza, for though she would continue to suffer, he was certain it would never be by Ramza's hand. He was the one person in the world who would truly never use her for his own ambition.

She had made a great ally in Ramza, but alas, Delita would soon be forced to come to her rescue and deliver her straight into the hands of one who sought to use her just like all the rest, so that he too may prosper. But if selfless, honorable intentions did naught but place the princess in repeated danger, then how was she to survive this impending war? Better to see her used and deceived until she gains the security of the crown and title of "queen" and then right all the wrongs of the world from her throne.

There was no saying that Razma would make no attempt to reclaim her after Delita had done so himself. But he was beginning to think that this real life game of reverse manhunt, with Ovelia as the hunted and they the hunters, might be just the thing to propel him through the ranks of the Southern Sky and secure him great enough station to decide whether he could afford to love Ramza or not.

---

Ovelia's funeral was held three days after her birthday, which was also the very day on which she died. It was determined that Delita was now well enough to be moved from his bed, though he was not permitted to attend the burial for fear that the journey to the burial grounds would be too taxing on him. The service, however, was held within the chapel on the castle grounds, thus allowing the king to attend. He was carried down to the courtyard upon a litter, and placed into a carriage to complete the short trek to the chapel.

Upon entering the none too modest sanctuary, for indeed it was lavishly decorated and larger than the churches found even in prominent lesser castle-towns, Delita beheld Ovelia for the first time since he had killed her. Death had done naught to whither her; even before her death the girl had been pale and spiritless. There was a brief period when her cheeks resembled something full and rosy like those of most young women her age and fortune, but that had passed not long after her marriage to the king. Delita thought now that he should have suspected that she had fallen out of love with him, for her loving him was the only thing he could imagine might have contributed to her improved health. But in those last months of her life she was as sullen as ever, wasting away her days in her library, refusing the company even of her ladies in waiting, rarely speaking more than two sentences to him at dinner, let alone coming to his bed, nor even expressing any interest in doing so.

To say that he had never loved her would not be a lie, yet the truth was not as harsh as that. No he had not loved her, not as one ought to love a spouse, yet he had, in an usual way, found in her a kind of soul mate. She was an heir to the throne, denied all the power and luxury that her title ought to have afforded. He was raised amongst the nobility, educated in the same schools, dressed in the same finery, yet constantly in debt to those who elevated him to such a status. Both lived on the brink of ruin, their fates not of their own choosing but dependant on those who weaned them. Ovelia ought to have been independently powerful but could not see that in allying herself with others, she merely allowed them to make use of her unharnessed influence. Delita could see this, just as he had seen how he had been manipulated by those who'd claimed to esteem him, and thus chose to save her from her fate.

At least that was what originally his intention. His own realization of her usefulness did not come until he began to notice her more than merely grateful interest in him. He was her hero, the only person who ever really expressed an awareness of her suffering, first who ever seemed to really be looking out for her. How could she not have fancied herself in love with him? But she was a princess who might some day be queen, and a queen would be in need of a king and in this war torn world where a commoner had already managed to climb through the ranks of offices normally reserved for the nobility, why should he not set his sights on the ultimate prize?

It was simple enough to woo her. After all, she wanted to be in love with him. And with all of the attempts on her life made by Larg and who knows what other outside parties, he had many opportunities to come to her rescue. Yet he did not win her through deeds alone, for his incredible amount of sympathy for the girl made her an easy conversational companion. They talked of everything and nothing; in him was she able to confide her fears that she was being constantly used, that none ever remembered her gods given free will, her longing for happier times and friends long lost whom those that controlled her had driven her from. To her he would speak of his sister, a girl not unlike herself, raised with love and attention amongst nobles, then cast aside at their convenience. It was brilliant really. He compared Ovelia to one whom he had so tirelessly adored, his poor, tragic sister and swore that he would never allow her to meet a similar fate.

Of course Ovelia might have been more similar to his sister than most people realized, for it was once claimed that she was not actually Ovelia, but a substitute, placed in her cradle when the real Ovelia died in infancy. But this was not a widely known topic, nor was its veracity ever disputed or confirmed. And now it never would be, for soon she would be laid to rest under many feet of cold, hard earth.

Wretched thing! He did not regret killing her, for she had turned against him and might have brought about his ruin if she lived, but he did not rejoice in it. Their brief marriage had been at once wildly passionate and completely loveless; in the first few weeks following the wedding, seldom was the night that the king did not visit the queen's apartments. But that was all he did: visit, arrive some time after dinner, often after consuming several more glasses of wine, have his way with her, and return to his own apartments to sleep. He professed to love her, and would see to her by day, always making an effort to dine with her and bestow gifts of jewels, or clothing or chocobos upon her as often as possible. However, he could not bring himself to lie the night through by her side. Eventually he stopped visiting her all together and she voiced no desire that he might resume the behavior.

As the service began, it dawned on Delita that the last time he had been in this chapel was on his wedding day. How long ago it seemed, though in truth it was not even three months prior. He could hardly recall any of the details of it, for his sights were on the future, not the present, for once he was properly married to the princess the coronation would take place. He was not happy to be married to her; he was happy to be marrying the one who would gain him the crown. He tried to remember details of the ceremony, but everything came up blank, no images of Ovelia looking radiant in a wedding gown, no wedding jitters, no blushing bride, no thrill of happiness at his first married kiss. Only impatience to move on to the ceremony that would see him crowned king, and impatience left no images to be recalled.

"Dear friends, family, citizens," the old priest began, "today are we all united as mourners for the passing of our most gracious Queen Ovelia." If she had died but a few months sooner, Confessor Marcel might be the one presiding over her funeral. But it was difficult to give a sermon when you yourself now lay in your grave.

Delita did not truly hear much of what was said. He heard an endless drone of words, prayers for the protection Ovelia's soul, hope that she might be reunited with those she herself had loved and lost, prayers for him, that he might be strong and withstand her passing. Yet he lacked understanding. They were just words, devoid of meaning. He could not tell her whether it was guilt, for here sat Ovelia's murderer at her own funeral, or sincere lack of interest that fueled his indifference. And there was the little matter of church corruption, but this priest was probably oblivious to that, and at any rate it was gone now, passed unnoticed. The old Church of Glabados was intact, now free from any dealings with the Lucavi, and a new era had come to the kingdom of Ivalice, with Delita at the head of it.

The Lucavi. The Knights Templar. They had all been destroyed, had they not? Delita had certainly heard naught of them since the incident at Mullonde. Unfortunately all who had bourn witness to these events were missing, so none could say for sure what happened there. But soldiers from Zeltennia had managed to retrieve the bodies of several of the Knights and Delita could only assume that all had gone as he had hoped, for if the Knights did survive they certainly would have staged an attack against him by now. How fortunate it was that Alma had proved so essential to the Templars' plot, for she served as perfect bait to lure in the one who would eventually lead to their undoing. Ramza had remained predictable to the bitter end, always placing the welfare of others before himself, especially that of those whom he loved.

But had he really met his end? For the past two days since he learned he might live, Delita had done his best not to think of Ramza. But trying not to think of him made Delita only more apt to dwell upon of his former beloved, so instead he resolved to think only of him, which was also futile for he actually did what he had decided to do. And though he tried to think of happy times, long before the Akademy or Tietra's death or their ill-fated love affair, he always came back to Ramza wandering the world, careless, free and never thinking of the peasant boy he had once loved. So Delita chose instead to think of something else to try and distract himself, and presently that was Ovelia, for it was after all, her funeral.

It was a pleasant service. Though Delita felt nothing, everyone else seemed to be moved, and the choir sang while the organ played a requiem that was entirely too powerful and passionate for one so taciturn as Ovelia. Orran made no attempt to hide his tears, and Valmafra clung tightly to his arm to comfort him. Delita thought he should appear so shaken, for he was supposed to have been madly in love with the dead girl, but he could not bring himself to feign it. He merely sat in silent stoicism, hoping that in the eyes of the congregation, he was simply in shock and incapable of expressing the depths of his grief. Such a reaction was common in one who had just lost the love of his life, was it not? He seemed to recall that when his parents died, he had not felt anything until days after they were laid to their final rest.

His eyes scanned the room, taking in the solemn faces of those gathered in the church. There mere many he recognized, but few he knew. Many of them were courtiers, his casual companions, with whom he took his leisure, hunting, riding or engaging in friendly sparring matches. Some of the ladies he recognized as Ovelia's ladies in waiting, for they always took their attention away from their needlepoint or game of cards to greet him when he visited the queen's apartments. Others he recognized as well-to-do citizens from his days serving amongst the Blackram Knights, long before his coronation, and many of those of who remained of the Order of the Southern Sky were in attendance. A somber lot, visibly devoid of all of those who had once ruled the major cities of the land, for nearly all of them had lost their lives in the War of the Lions.

Then he saw her. Golden blonde, rosy cheeks, amber eyes, hair still fastened back in a ribbon the way she had always worn it since she was a child. He could just barely make out the pretty ends of it behind her ears for it being concealed by the hood on the cloak she wore. She was in the back corner, hiding amongst the commoners, shrouded in layers of plain grey fabric, and currently holding a handkerchief to her face to dry her tears.

"Alma!" Delita wanted to cry, but did not, for such an outburst would certainly reveal his disinterest in his wife's funeral. Yet he could not tear his eyes away from her, much as he wanted to return to staring blankly forward, feigning shock. The truth was that now he did feel genuine shock, shock and elation at the sight of the girl, for wherever she was, her brother could not be too far off.

Her eyes met his, and she abruptly averted her gaze, tilting her head downwards. Still Delita did not look away and he watched as she put her hands together in a brief silent prayer, then excused herself, moving down the pew, passing over those between herself and the aisle and finally exciting through a side door, so as not to disturb the congregation with the light that would be admitted by opening the main doors. He had to follow her. He could not lose this opportunity to get to Ramza. He flung his face forwards into his hands and pretended to sob.

"My liege," Orran said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We are all most grieved upon your loss. Myself can only imagine "

"I must go, Orran," Delita interjected. "I must…I simply…I just cannot stay another moment."

"Delita?" Valmafra asked.

But Delita left her no time to question him. He rose to his feet, face still buried in his hands to conceal the fact that he was not actually crying, and bolted for that same door through which Alma had exited, seemingly spurred by his unmanageable grief, but truthfully motivated by his wish to catch up to the girl who had so abruptly left not two minutes before him.

---

The sound was abysmal. He recalled often observing that it was much improved upon by the presence of a second whistle, but it seemed if he attempted to harmonize with her, the results would be downright cacophonous. But she was pleased with herself. He could see it in the way her eyebrows lifted, erasing her customary look of woe, and even in the darkness, broken only by starlight and the dull glow torches cradled in sconces on the courtyard inner wall, he thought he could see some rosiness appear in her thin, pallid cheeks.

"I did it!" she exclaimed.

He laughed. She laughed too and it occurred to him that he ought to be relieved, for she might have taken offense to his chortling at her glee. Yet he could not help himself for he imagined that he had not expressed such candid, unabashed delight since he was a child. Even so, he could not recall ever feeling so accomplished by way of such a small feat. Such sentiment was reserved for those who did not carry the burden of poverty, for blowing tuneless melodies upon a blade of grass could hardly improve one's lot in life.

There was a time though when Tietra had looked so joyful. He was almost certain of it, though he could not quite place the memory. But he could see her eyes, dark and wide with satisfied surprise, as frustration finally yielded way to success.

Sister… Instinctively, he touched his hand to her locket. The silver heart shifted and reflected a lonely shimmer of moonlight.

"What's that?" Ovelia asked. Her eyes were on the necklace.

"Oh, this?" Delita asked, lifting the chain away from his body that she might see it better.

She learned in to oberserve. "A pendant?"

It was true enough and he supposed he was glad she had not noticed how very sentimental the trinket might be. The locket was a gift from Lord Barbaneth, which Tietra had received not long before her leaving for her first season away at school. Alma had an identical one. They had been empty at the time, Barbaneth hoping that the girls would someday choose for themselves what they most wished to conceal in them, but on the morning of their departure Dycedarg insisted they fill them with poison powder in case they should ever encounter threatening persons in their travels. The poison was gone by the time he buried her. Delita hoped that perhaps she might have used it against one of her captors, but knew that she more likely had disposed of it long before. She would never have had the heart to use it.

"I keep it as a remembrance of my sister, Tietra. She...she was caught up in this fighting and died," he said, turning away and closing his hand around the object. Though his sister may never have settled on what she wished to keep in it, he did not suffer from such indecision. But he was not about to reveal its contents to Ovelia, nor to anyone else for that matter.

"I'm sorry," the princess said simply. He wondered if she did realize that it was a locket about his neck. Probably, for though she was horribly abused and manipulated, she was not dumb. She was thoughtful and considerate though and likely feigned ignorance for his sake, so that he would not have to elaborate upon it.

Poor Ovelia! She was uncommonly empathetic, too caught up in dissecting the feelings of others to think anything of her own. So very like his sister, who'd pretended to be happy so as not to offend the generosity of those who provided for her. She'd been so busy fretting over their perception that she may not have even realized how miserable she was.

It was always an act. We danced to their tune, always afraid that we would misstep and be cast aside, labled ingrates. Anger growing, he clenched his fist. "She died for the nobility's convenience. They used her and cast her away, and for that I cannot forgive them."

His thoughts returned to Ovelia and he told her so. "I shall not let them deal to you the same fate they dealt to her. I will protect you from aught and all who would use you."

It was a claim he meant to make good upon, and also not the first time he'd said it. A month prior, when first they had come to Zeltennia, Ovelia had sat in utter misery amongst the ruins of a church. She'd been gone for hours, Goltanna's men searching frantically for her for fear that she might be assassinated whilst out of their site, when he stumbled upon her. He was probably the only person in the castle not intentionally looking for the princess, yet his aimless wanderings had led him to her. She clearly wished to remain undisturbed, and he could not blame her, for she had much to think on. Still he made his presence known to her and when she responded venomously to his inquiry after her mood, he understood the depth of her suffering.

She said she could see no value in her living. After all she was not the princess she was supposed to be. Just a girl, placed in a vacant cradle to hide the death of the true princess, so that conspirators might use her to usurp the unpopular queen. She was raised in monasteries, kept locked away from all of the turmoil of courtly living, never wielding any of the power or influence her imposed station was supposed to afford her. Larg wanted her out of the way so that she might never take an interest in such matters; Goltanna saw her always being away as an opportunity to capitalize on a neutral power. She'd served her purpose well, looking a princess and possessing all of her associated potential but completely incapable of harnessing it on her own; she was the puppet of whoever gained her allegiance.

They were kindred spirits, he and Ovelia. She a nobody made up to be a princess, he similarly fashioned into an aristocrat. So he had decided to rescue her, to eradicate all of the corruption within the kingdom, to eliminate everyone with any semblance of power if need be, start anew. All that would remain would be a blank canvas where Ovelia might wield the power that was due to her. After all, she was now theoretically queen.

"Delia…Thank you," Ovelia said.

She moved closer to him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. It was a tender gesture, and a satisfying one. He had resolved to build a kingdom for her to reign. Surely she would need a king to rule by her side; he intended to be that king. So long as he was helping her, he saw no harm in helping himself, for what better way to ensure her well being than to be in the highest position of authority? If he was not her equal then he could not protect her, nor any others who might be used by those of greater fortune than themselves.

She leaned in closer and kissed him. A chaste little kiss, but on the lips, and unexpectedly bold. She veritably jumped away from him, blushing, head turned down in shame.

"Forgive me!" she pleaded, keeping her eyes focused on the pointy toes of her leather slippers. "I should not have been so presumptuous."

He stepped towards her, pulled her close, and kissed her back, just as chastely, just as briefly. And he felt nothing. He kissed her again, this time more ardently, his tongue passing briefly between her lightly parted lips. Still nothing. He was going through the motions, making a display of affection without sincerity or sensation.

She stepped away from him, her blushing intensified to a heated red. It was the way Ramza looked when he kissed him, the way one should look when being kissed. But while seeing Ramza's flushed and bashful countenance fortified Delita's desire for him, seeing Ovelia so hardly had the same effect. Indeed, it only made him more aware of the fact that much as he might try, he did not want her. Not as a man should want the woman he intended to marry.

"I…I should get to bed," she stammered. "It's, uh…late."

"Aye," Delita agreed, stepping closer to her again and again he kissed her. He could sense the excitement in her body. "Good night then."

"Y-yes," she managed. She stood for one more long moment staring at him, looking positively bewildered but also ecstatic. Then, with a little shake of her head, she turned about and entered the castle.

What sorry fools they were, Ovelia for believing that Delita loved her and he for believing that he could do so. She was supposed to be his savior every bit as much as he intended to be hers. It was a beautiful plan; he would save her from those who wished her harm and she would save him from wanting things he could not have, then some day, when they had both saved each other, they would reign side by side over a new kingdom where all were treated as equals and every law was tempered by the bond of their love.

But there would be no such connection between them. On the day he swore to build Ovelia her new kingdom, he really had meant for such joy to come to pass, and ostensibly, everything still would. He would protect her, stamp out all of the corruption amongst the artisocracy and leave nothing but a blameless infant kingdom. He would marry her; he had clearly already succeeded in securing her affections. He would be king and together they would shape their new kingdom into that paradise that each of them so longed for. But he would never love her. One could not simply decide whom they were going to love and then make it so. Not when such an one was already in love with somebody else.

Ovelia would never be enough. He had hoped that fondness for her might replace the passion he had for Ramza, yet knew it would not. He was setting himself up to gain everything he ever wanted except the very thing that had spurred his longing for everything else. Though he thought that until the day he died he would swear it was Tietra's death that propelled his conquest, he always knew it was Ramza. And he would have fortune, land and title to surpass his beloved's, yet he could no more have him then than he could right now, for he would have a wife, and a duty to honor his union with her. And had he not had enough of secret midnight trysts?

Later that night, he encountered Ovelia in a corridor in the residential east wing of the castle. To assuage her embarrassed blushing, he casually asked her whom exactly it was who had endeavored to teach her to play the grass whistle so many years before. She told him it was Alma Beoulve and wondered aloud at her welfare. Delita assured her that, though he was not acquainted her, she must be well, for such was the usual state for girls of good fortune. When she agreed, bade him goodnight once more, and he could stop pretending not to know the person who'd once been like a second sister to him, he began to cry both because Alma's fate lay in the hands of the Templar, the most corrupt and conniving power in all of Ivalice, and because he would do nothing about it. He knew he could, for he was thought to be an ally to her captors and he might persuade them to let him near enough to rescue her. But then they would discover his unfaithfulness and he would lose his shot at the throne.

Instead Ramza would save her. Or he would die trying. This made him cry all the more.

---

When he was certain he was out of earshot, he called out to her. "Alma! Alma!" he repeated, but to no avail. She made no reply. He did not even know if he followed her, for once she had fled the church he had no means of knowing in which direction she had run. None would have thought to stop her and inquire as to her business, for all were welcome to attend the queen's funeral, and she would have been inspected by soldiers before being admitted to insure that she was unarmed. If someone saw her going, they would think her a harmless common girl, spurred by grief, no doubt inflicted by a simple mind, to leave prematurely and in a hurry. But Alma was no commoner, and definitely no simpleton.

"Alma!" he cried once more. Only the wind rustling in the tree branches answered him.

And the trees were everywhere. He could hardly recall there ever being so many trees anywhere near the castle at Zeltennia. Trees, fallen leaves and the gentle sound of a running stream confronted him from every angle and he was vaguely aware of a roar of thunder, dulled by distance. In his haste he had run blindly forward in a seemingly random direction, with no notion of where Alma had gone to, nor whether or not he followed her. Still he pressed on, irrespective of the fact that he had no idea where he was, and brashly ignoring the threat of a thunderstorm.

It was unusually chill for so late into the cycle of Taurus. Or was it? Delita had never spent an uninterrupted year in Zeltennia and therefore could make no accurate estimation as to its typical weather patterns. Eagrosse had always been in full bloom by now, but Zeltennia was further north, and perhaps spring took longer to revive the barren trees than it did out west. Though similar, the climate was not identical throughout all of Ivlaice. Or was it? Delita could not say. Though he had been to most of the kingdom's territories in the past three years, it had always been in battle, and if not, some other war-related errantry, and he had taken little note of the weather. It was a pity really, to recall how he had seen so much, yet absorbed so little. As a small child living in a three-room farmhouse, he would have scarcely dreamed of living a life as adventurous and far reaching as the one he'd recently led.

Dried, dead leaves crunched beneath his feet. He was certain they should all be gone by now, though of course, unlike the impeccable gardens at Zeltennia, this forest was not subject to meticulous landscaping. And there were no forests like this one in Eagrosse so perhaps leaves stayed on forest paths unless displaced by man and Delita simply did not know it. He trod along the unkempt path, increasingly aware of the fact the wind had picked up, now whipping about his ears and inciting more than a gentle rustling amongst the tree branches. The sky turned dark grey, tinged with a frightening greenness, and there was a rumble of thunder in the distance. It seemed that the sky would open up in a flourish of rain and lightning at any moment, but this did naught to deter Delita from his imagined pursuit.

Not long after, an encounter with a fast flowing stream forced him to stop and consider his errand. Very likely the stream was not above knee deep and he could have easily passed through it, but it was not something to be forded without a moment's pause. So he stopped walking and thought about the stream, about whether or not he ought to accept it as an end to his search, or if he should try and find a way around it or discover some more inventive means of crossing it, lest it should prove deeper than he imagined.

His eyes fixed on the water, speeding heartily away from an unknown source to an equally unknown end. If there were fish or tadpoles or any other form of aquatic life within, he could not see them, for the speed of the water fighting against the bevy of rocks within it created cloudy white rapids. Contented that nothing should be gained by merely looking at the thing, his gaze shifted to the other bank and found what he was looking for.

It was a miracle. There stood Alma, still hidden in her dark green cloak, calmly loosing the rope that tethered a chocobo to a tree. Once more Delita fought the urge to cry out to her, now fearing that he might alarm and cause her to flee from him again. Now he had to cross the stream, and quickly, for soon Alma could be on the back of a chocobo and riding away from him, possibly forever. His decision made, he waded boldly forward into the water.

The splash of his feet breaking the water's surface alerted Alma to his presence. She turned abruptly to face him, the rapidity of the motion causing her hood to fall from her head and expose her bountiful golden waves of hair. She gasped, said nothing, and then stood very still, eyes locking with Delita's. He dared not move and so they remained staring at one another in silence, the water tugging at Delita's ankles, encouraging them to give out from underneath him.

"Delita," she said finally, or at least she seemed to say. Her mouth went through all the motions of pronouncing his name, but he could not hear her.

"Alma," he said loudly now, but not frantically. He advanced steadily towards the opposite bank. She held still, yet he still sensed that she, like a startled doe, might flee at any moment. "Alma," he repeated. His teeth chattered as the icy water had now reached his knees and poured down the insides of his light summer boots. "Alma you're alive."

He had now reached the shore, though Alma still stood several yards away, unflinching, her one hand tightly grasping the tether. He continued his approach. Everything in him wanted to charge the girl and capture her within his embrace before she could escape, but he knew we was not currently strong enough to retain her should she endeavor to break free. How long it had been since he'd beheld her! Unlike her brother in whom Delita had witnessed a gradual evolution from frail, wide-eyed youth to hardened but hopeful hero, Alma's change seemed to be instantaneous. Granted he had not seen her at length since before the death of his sister over four years ago, but these years of being abused in the church's conquest for power had done much to alter her. She had never been a slip of a girl, but her soft, round features were now strong and determined. Her jaw-line was harsher, her shoulders broader, and her stance firm and tall as the bravest of knights. But her eyes, though they were red with tears, were still wide and hopeful. Just like Ramza.

She took a step away from him, and Delita stopped. He advanced another step and she in turn retreated.

"Alma don't go," he urged. "You have naught to fear from me!"

She shut her eyes tightly and shook her head. "How I wish that might be true." She turned about and worked frantically to unravel the knot in the rope that bound her chocobo.

"Alma stop!" he cried, but it was too late; she had already succeeded in loosing the knot and her foot was in the stirrup of her saddle. She did not even glance back at him as she spurred the beast forward.

He ran. He knew he could not catch her, but he pressed on regardless. The weight of his wet boots slowed him down, and each step grew increasingly laborious as they stuck to the quickly moistening ground. It was raining, and not just a pleasant spring shower, but sharp, stinging drops that battered with a rebounding splash against anything that stood between them and the ground. Delita could now hardly see his quarry for the thickness of the rain. If she were even still close enough to be seen. He could make out a vague figure that might have been her, for it was rapidly escaping him, but he did not know for certain. But he kept running though his body ached and his breath shortened and he did not know to what end he might be traversing. He had to chase her for as long as he possibly could, had to ascertain some hint as to her whereabouts. And he could think of nothing to do but follow her.

Suddenly he found himself face to face with soaked, dead leaves and dirt. He had fallen, but he had not tripped. His body had given up. Much as he wanted to continue his pursuit, his weakened body was incapable of it.

"Alma!" he cried helplessly. His voice was hoarse and thin. "Alma!" he repeated. But he knew she was already long gone. He cried out to her one last time and then could do nothing but lie, miserable and exhausted, upon the cold, wet earth and pray that someone might find him there before he was drowned or washed away.

---

"Then our paths part once again." He hoped his voice betrayed none of his sorrow.

Ramza looked at him longingly. "Be safe, Delita."

"And you, Ramza."

He wasn't sure who stepped towards whom. Maybe they had both moved and met somewhere in the middle, but their hands were suddenly grasped in a firm handshake. It was not what he wanted, but he would have to be satisfied. Then, without another word, Ramza was gone.

"You mean to let him go?" Valmafra asked.

"He acts as I expected he would," Delita said with expertly feigned indifference.

Valmafra shook her head disapprovingly. "Even your friends are only pieces to be played."

He turned violently to her and it took all of his reserved willpower to resist the urge to throttle her. "Mind you words!" he shouted. "You know not what you say!"

She shrugged, her indifference likely genuine. "Such outbursts ill become a man."

"Haven't you somewhere else to be?" he spat, knowing that if she remained his hands might yet find purchase on her throat. Thankfully she turned and left him, for he had no real desire to kill her, despite the fact that presently he thought he wanted to.

The nerve of the woman! How dare she presume to know his intentions towards Ramza? True enough, he did use him in a sense, for he saw no better means by which to bring down the Church, and Ramza realistically might have to do just that in order to rescue his sister. But Delita wanted her safe almost as much as her brother did and it was not as if he had sent the Templar to kidnap her; she'd gotten herself into that mess when she and Ramza had stormed Orbonne in search of the Virgo Stone.

And it was only with great pain that he had consented to allow himself to let Ramza charge into such peril. He wanted to stop him, but it was much easier to let him go. His love for his sister would never permit him to sit idly by while she was in danger and Delita was certain that there was no other more qualified to save her. Ramza had already survived many encounters that for one less skilled and willful would have been fatal. If anyone had a chance of triumphing over an onslaught of ancient, evil forces, it was Ramza.

Delita told himself there could be no stopping him. Not even his love for his childhood friend could halt his pursuit. Which is why he had decided to ease their parting or rather to ensure that Ramza's affections did not interfere with his objective.

He had asked Delita to join him, no, to fight beside him as his equal. Tempting though the offer was, Delita knew he must refuse it, or else undo all that he had done to advance himself towards the throne. Waging separate wars, he against the nobility and Ramza against the Church, they would cover more ground and ultimately achieve their common goal: a kingdom at peace.

He might have told Ramza this in his refusal. Instead he chose to say, "She needs me - far too much to leave her now."

"The princess?" Ramza had asked.

"Prince or princess, the Church cares not," Delita said. "It craves only power. A puppet state, with the High Confessor at its strings. This is their grand plan for Ivalice."

"And you?" Ramza asked. Delita could hear the heels of his greaves scraping against the floor. "Do you not use Ovelia to fulfill your own ambition?"

Delita thought on his reply. On the one hand it was true, for how better to ensure his rise to power than to marry a queen, but on the other hand he was also ensuring the continued safety and prosperity of a most grievously used young woman. "I cannot say," he said truthfully. "I am only sure of this. To save her life I would gladly give my own."

That part was a lie, but a necessary one. It would do Ramza no good imagine a happy ending to their story. Even were they both to win their respective fights, there could be little hope of that. So Delita decided it was best to make Ramza believe he no longer loved him, or maybe never loved him at all, and he should linger no longer in his presence. He would pretend to love Ovelia and Ramza's heart would be broken. All that should remain then was sadness and brotherly love for Alma ranking first in his heart.

Delita hated to do it but knew that as Ramza painfully managed tell him that he did not find his declaration of love for the princess to be strange and that he understood only too well, he knew he had succeeded.

Yet he continued to prove himself a loyal friend. More than loyal. He'd had no reason to kill Confessor Zalmour, no desire to do so. The poor bastard was just as used and manipulated as Ovelia. He knew nothing of the Church's plot and wholeheartedly trusted all of those who held his unseen puppet strings. But he'd disovered them together, found Delita conversing with a heretic and making no move to kill or capture him. A man truly loyal to the Church would never have done that! And so he learned Delita's true nature. That is why he had to die.

They'd stood side by side, poised for a battle that Ramza did want to fight. Delita had turned to him, the panic with which he spoke to convey the gravity of the situation all too real. "He has seen me," he'd said. "He must not live to tell of it! We must fight them, Ramza!"

Ever the kind soul, Ramza said, "They know nothing of the High Confessor's plot. They serve him blindly. If we explain what has happened, they may well listen."

"Hear your words, Ramza!" Delita cried. "Reasoning with their ilk is folly, even you must see this. But you have leave to try!"

Ramza had looked at him for a moment, studying him. His expression shifted to one of sadness, understanding. And that was the end of it. Though he might act as if he still hoped to reason with the confessor, Delita knew that, in the end, he would kill him, possibly before Delita even got close enough to deal him a single blow. Because behind the sadness was the love that compelled him to act against his better judgment. Ramza had no choice but to kill the confessor because Delita had asked him to do it. As Delita falsely claimed he would give his life to save Ovelia's, Ramza truthfully would have given his to save Delita's.

The battle was won quickly; Zalmour's accompanying knights were hardly a match for the combined swordsmanship of Delita and Ovelia's former guard Agrias. Ramza had scaled the tower atop which Zalmour had positioned himself with alarming speed, so much that Delita had found himself distracted by wondering at the young man's whereabouts at which point he was temporarily stilled by a mystic's hesitation charm then victim to a blow from the remaining knight. He soon recovered and slew the knight, but doubled over onto his knees, surprised at the pain from the injury he'd sustained. Ramza was almost instantly at his side, a shot fired from the weapon of one of his comrades ending the confessor's life.

Ramza helped Delita shift to sit, though he only managed to stay upright with the aid of Ramza's arm. They were soon joined by a third party, a girl, no a young woman, with thick blonde hair pouring out from beneath her white hood. She stood close by, softly chanting an incantation, and as the soft white light washed over him, curing his wounds, Delita swore he recognized her voice. It was small, unassuming, and formerly timid he thought, though there was hardly a trace of that now.

He looked at her again and instantly knew her. It was Syndonny, that same girl who had once been a chemist in their scouting party from the Akademy. Though her hair had grown longer and her demeanor more poised, he still recognized her. So she had remained loyal to Ramza throughout all of this. Delita quickly glanced at him to see if he was looking at her. She had become quite lovely over the course of two years now that she'd outgrown girlish silliness and he could not help but feel a familiar sting of jealousy at the idea of her being Ramza's constant companion. But his eyes were downcast, the hand of his free arm clutching the grass; apparently he had suffered some injuries too and in typical Ramza fashion was trying with limited success to conceal his pain.

Soon enough they were both fully healed and on their feet and talking of where Ramza would go next. How convenient it was that Valmafra should appear with the news that Count Orlandeau, the very man Ramza had thought to pursue in coming to Zeltennia, had recently departed. Thus he and Delita would again have to go their separate ways, the latter left with nothing but the lingering sensation of Ramza's hand clasping his and a sinking feeling that that would be the extent of any future contact between them. If there ever was any future contact between them, and Delita knew that there was a very real possibility that there would not be.

He sighed heavily, now forgetting how angry he was with Valmafra. It didn't matter what she thought. It was almost better she believed he used Ramza as a pawn in his game of thrones and felt no remorse. Let her go on thinking it and let his constant worrying pass unknown. His sister was dead; Ramza and Alma were the only people he truly cared about left in the world. Not a day went by that he did not think of them and fear that he might hear of their untimely deaths. But he could not help them and while that truth was killing him, there was no need for anyone else to know it. From Valmafra's perspective, he was letting them fall into the clutches of the Church and that is exactly how it needed to be.

Teitra…watch over them, Delita prayed. Keep them safe. His hand went to his chest to touch her locket. But there was nothing there.

He kicked the ground fiercely, bringing up a chunk of earth and grass. How could he have lost it? He searched frantically, dropping to his hands and knees, crawling about, surveying the surrounding area. But he found nothing but trimmed grass and bluebells. He moved onto another area with identical results. Then another, and another, but still his efforts yielded no success.

This is ridiculous, he thought. It could be anywhere. Who knows when I lost it. It may yet be in the church. But somehow he knew it wasn't. No it couldn't be, for he would have heard it fall from his neck and hit the floor, would have noticed the loss of the weight of it. He must have lost it in the midst of battle.

He gave the ground another kick, secretly hoping he might hear the satisfying chink of his metal clad toe rebounding off the little silver heart, but there was only the dull thud of it colliding with the lonely ground. Lonely, save for the fact that it was still littered with the blood and bodies of Zalmour and his party. Delita supposed he'd have to provide some explanation for that. He could always tell Goltanna that he discovered the Church was working against him, or tell the High Confessor that Zalmour had sought to side with Goltanna and ceased to reamin neutral as the Church had ostensibly done. Or he could blame it on Ramza, for the Church already wanted his head and blaming him for the death of a clergyman would place him in no greater peril.

Ramza...how Delita longed for him to comfort him right now! Losing the locket felt like losing Tietra all over again. When she had first fallen into the clutches of those who did not actually cause but would forever be associated wit her death, Delita had found solace in the young nobleman's arms. And so much more…

The stench of blood on the corpses reminded Delita of their presense. He would deal with them later. Right now he would find Valmafra; she was no Ramza but she was generally willing and would have to do.

---

He was in his bed again his covers pulled all the way up to his neck. And there were more of them than usual, the traditional silk coverlet not missing, but covered by a heavy woolen blanket. He was warm, too warm to be comfortable really, and unsure as to how he had ended up in such a state. It had happened again; he had allowed himself to slip into darkness and, like before, someone had rescued him. It was surely a sign that he was not yet meant to die. He turned his head and found that this time it was Valmafra who watched over him, though she stood in the window gazing out on the castle gardens beneath her.

"Valmafa," he said weakly. By now he should have expected the level of difficulty he found in speaking, but he remained surprised. She did not turn. "Valmafra," he repeated, thinking she had not heard him, yet she still remained motionless.

"Yes Delita, it is I," she replied, ever fixed on the window. "You are awake," she observed.

"Valmafra," he said again, his voice sounding more tender than he had intended due to hoarseness, though he had meant to speak gently. "Was it you who rescued me?" he asked. She seemed a logical choice, as she had observed his hasty exit from the church and expressed her surprise at it. It was very likely that she had attempted to follow him, and ultimately, succeeded.

She spun to face him, her countenance dull, unreadable. "It was not," she answered then quickly added, "But you should continue to rest Delita, and regain your strength. I fear you are very unwell indeed."

Curious though he was at her deflection of the question, he instead asked, "Unwell? More so than I was?"

"You were recovering," she said flatly. "Yet you chose to run off, being unfit to run, and in the rain no less, and so now I am afraid you are quite ill."

Delita coughed, harshly. Yes it was painful, but there was no sign of blood, so he had to assume that his lungs had healed. "It is but a cold," he protested.

"Yes, in one who's ability to fight sickness is questionable at present," said she. "We've no idea whether or not your body will expel this. Medicine alone cannot a disease cure."

She had a point. Many was the nobleman who had succumbed to the plague even though he was treated with the best medicines available. But he was the king! Surely in addition to the medicine, he should have the chemists who created it and the most accomplished white mages in the land. "Valmafra, do not talk such nonsense," Delita scolded. "I shall be well in less than a fortnight. Just see to it that I am well tended to."

"We shall," she agreed. "You have already been visited by the royal physician today, and he has made arrangements for others to come calling on you to appraise your condition. I pray that they find reason to hope." She bit the corner of her bottom lip and cast her eyes downward.

Was she concerned about him? It was unlike her to betray emotion so. Delita wasn't entirely sure whether she even experienced emotion in the way normal people did, so long had she been a puppet of the church; they had always dictated what she was to think and feel. Though as of late, being several months free of their reign, she had taken on a more compassionate, feminine nature. She certainly seemed to take a liking to Orran, and it was no secret that she had been his greatest comfort since the death of his father.

"Thank you," Delita said finally, unsure of how to react to her own uncertainty. "I too hope they will not pronounce me a dead man."

At this she laughed, and though he knew it was a nervous laughter, Delita was glad to see a hint of a smile play across her face. She was unaccustomed to smiling he knew, but ever so lovely when she did. Even cold and tight-lipped she was beautiful, and she had always remained so stoic even when he had made love to her, as he had on occasion when she had been his only consistent companion. But lately her habitual coldness had dissipated and given way to a girl who was learning to feel and happiness seemed to be her first project.

"I must away," Valmafra declared, face grave and troubled again.

"Why such haste?" Delita asked. "Will you not stay while and watch over me until my next caretaker comes?"

"I fear I have stayed too long already," she said.

"What mean you by that?" Delita almost demanded. She was making no sense. True, they had never exactly been friends, for she had long planned to kill him at the slightest sign of betrayal, but they had grown to respect one another, and it was because of that that they both lived today.

"Ovelia is dead Delita," she said flatly. It was hardly a reply to the question at hand.

Delita felt his frustration give way to anger and now verily demanded. "And what is it that you imply by saying such?"

"Such a fate may soon be yours as well," she continued, but her voice wavered. Was she about to cry?

What was she getting at? Ovelia was dead, impending tears, his death looming over his head; was she really so saddened by all of this? She had barely known Ovelia, and had primarily sought to use her as a piece of the church's plot. She could not possibly have come to care for her so quickly! Valmafra, who until a few months ago had not seemed to care for anyone, sobbing over a dead girl with whom she had spoken at length but a dozen times? The thought was absurd!

He was plagued simultaneously by another fit of coughing and the fact that he simply could not figure out what was the matter with her. He had always fancied himself adept at reading people, but in all his time of knowing her, he never quite got Valmafra. Then again, he had never tried to understand her until today.

Content that meditating on her behavior would yield no satisfying result, he said, "I do not understand. Have I upset you?" There seemed no other explanation. She had been downright cheerful by her standards until the day of Ovelia's death and now in his presence all she could do was mope, sigh and lurk in windows.

A chilling thought hit him. Did she know? It was an undeniable possibility, for Valmafra had seen first hand how he had capitalized on peoples' power and abused their trust.

"No Delita, it is I who have brought about mine own suffering," she protested, quelling his fears.

"Then?" He'd been bewildered to a point of ineloquence.

She replied, "I must leave you for I cannot risk contracting your illness."

"Contracting my illness?"

"Yes," Valmfra answered. "Delita," she began, her voice wavering again, but her determination shone through and she continued, "I am with child."

He was speechless. Valmafra former loyal servant and assassin of the Church of Glabados was going to be a mother. Yet why should this matter to me? Delita thought. Unless . . . Unless the baby was his. It was brilliant. Here stood a woman who delivered to him the news that he might soon be in his grave, but that all was not lost, for she carried in her womb an heir to the throne of Ivalice, for a king's bastard child was better than no child at all. There would be no question of succession; the people loved their king and would gladly honor his offspring's right to the throne, he was sure of it. True the baby might have to be crowned sovereign not long after its birth, but Orran could serve as regent and it was unlikely the child could find a better keeper than Valmafra.

"These are glad tidings," Delita said finally. "They bode well for Ivalice."

"I too do not wish to live through another battle for succession," Valmafra said, tone offering no suggestion that she shared in Delita's joy. "I do not know if I could bear to see the kingdom divided once again. But Delita, I must tell you that my news is not so cheering as you imagine. Though at first I had thought–"

"The child is not mine, am I right?" Delita asked, cutting her off.

She nodded slowly. "Correct." She moved closer to him. "At first, I too rejoiced that it might be. Not for myself, but for Ivalice. But soon I came to my senses and realized this was not possible."

There was no arguing with fact. Of course the child was not his, how could he have been so foolish as to think so? At least three months had passed since he and Valmafra had last made love, and one could hardly call it that, as it was completely devoid of any feeling other than carnal desire. She would have known she was pregnant for a least a month and would have begun to show signs of her condition. But here she stood, trim as ever, and his burden, the fear of leaving an heirless kingdom, remained.

"Then I suppose you wish also to inform me of your plans to marry the father?" Delita asked gloomily. He wanted to be spiteful, but found he couldn't.

"We have no such plans at present," Valmafra replied. "But yes, Orran and I shall be married in due time."

"And why is it you tell me all of this?"

"I did want the child to be yours. Though I bear no love for you, it would have meant some security for the future of Ivalice. You must believe me Delita."

He did; her voice was painfully sincere. He slowly nodded his affirmation. "Still," he persisted, "I know not why you have told me."

"Well," she began softly, "I suppose it is because, in a strange sort of way, I consider you my friend. 'Twas you who freed me from the church's service and for that I shall be always grateful. And time it was that you and I would confide in one another, seldom thought that may have been. For we had no one else, and sometimes even the most secretive must reveal some of their secrets. So I tell you this because, I have no one else to tell. No parents, no sisters, no kin of any kind, no friends from my girlhood. Only you, a man I once fought alongside and who saved my life."

Delita said nothing. So that was that. She was his friend. She, who had been at his side almost every step of the way as he schemed and fought to attain the throne, still considered him worthy of friendship. At least he knew if he did die then someone who knew him as more than just the idyllic hero-king would mourn him, at least a little bit.

"I must go now," she said and made for the door.

"Valmafra wait," Delita called. She stopped and faced him, looking stoic, but not somber. Sharing her secret seemed to have driven the sadness out of her. "I have heard your confession, and I am glad for you," he continued. "Now, as a friend, will you not tell me who it was that did recall me from the woods?"

She hesitated. She had avoided answering the question before, so he was hardly surprised, but why she was so reluctant to answer could not tell. Even in the very moment he thought he'd figured her out, she still found ways to elude him. Just as he had accepted that he would receive no response, she answered. "It was Alma Beoulve."

"Alma!" he gasped, the sudden intake of air inducing another bout of coughing. When it has subsided he continued, voice more hoarse than ever, "Alma rescued me? Where has she gone?"

"I know not Delita," Valmafra said regretfully. "When Orran and I returned to the castle to assemble a search party following your disappearance from the funeral, she was waiting there, soaked through, with you unconscious and draped over the back of her chocobo. She said naught of where she had come from, or where she was going, only that she'd discovered you in the woods and hoped it was not too late to save you."

"And you did not insist she stay?" Delita asked.

"She is a dead girl," Valamfra replied. "Surely if she wished for any to know of her survival, she would have made it known. She was fortunate enough to have not been recognized by any of the castle guards. If she stayed, surely she would have been discovered."

I do not understand, Delita thought. Why should she wish to remain so elusive? Was that why she had run from him? Because she feared that he would reveal the tragic end of the Beoulve line to be a fallacy?

Valmafra spoke again. "I did not wish to tell you for I feared it would upset you. But take heart in knowing that I have now seen her twice and am certain that Alma Beoulve lives."

"Thank you Valmafra," Delita said calmly. "Now leave me and rest so that you might be spared my sickness and protect your child."

"Yes Delita," Valmafra agreed. "You rest yourself. Someone should hasten and attend to you presently."

Even before she was gone Delita has forgotten her. His thoughts were now all of Alma. Why did she wish to remain anonymous? What was there to gain from living a life wherein no one knew you lived? True he had done it once himself, but then he had been a mere peasant and he had not so much been dead to the world as he had been lost to those few who knew him. And he had lost nothing, for he had nothing in life and therefore nothing to lose in death. But Alma had everything, money, status, an estate. True, two thirds of her brothers had died in shame, Dycedarg a traitor and Ramza a heretic, but all of that was past now and even if the nobility did not rejoice in learning that the Beoulve family was not extinct, as he suspected they would, Delita was king and would see to it that she retained all that she was rightfully due.

And also, Ramza wasn't dead. Surely Alma knew where he was. And wasn't that the real reason why he wanted to catch her? She was his only hope of gaining the only thing he wanted which he did not have. Before the church, the Southern Sky, the title, the kingdom, the only thing he was sure he had wanted was Ramza.

Delita relaxed against the pillows and shut his eyes and hoped then when he opened them, Ramza would be there.

NOTES: Yeah…this has been for months and I just got too caught up in real life to edit and post it. SO sorry for the delay. I promise I am hard at work on Part III! Hopefully it won't take me another 4 months to get around to posting it :-P.